OF  CALTF.  riBBABY,  IBS  ANGELA 


•VE    COME     BECAUSE       BEFORE     HEAVEN       I    CAN'T    KEEP    AWAY." 

Drawn  by  William  van  Dreiser  !.^i-f  /><K'''  J' 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


By  ETFIEL  M.  DELL 


AUTHOR  OF 

"The  Way  of  an  Eagle,"        "The  Rocks  of  Vaipre," 
"The  Keeper  of  the  Door,"     Etc. 


With  Frontispiece  in  Colors 
By  WILLIAM  VAN  DRESSER 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1516 

BY 
ETHEL  M.  DELL 

Fifth  Printing 


ttbe  ftnfcfeerbocfecr  fnese,  t*ew  JJot* 


I  DEDICATE  THIS  BooK 
TO  MY  BROTHER  REGINALD 

WITH  MY  LOVE 


2128848 


"He  hath  broken  the  gates  of  Srass:  ' 
And  smitten  the  bars  of  iron  in  sunder.** 

Psalm  cvii.,  16. 

"  I  saw  heaven  opened." 

Revelation  xix.,  jri. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE    .                  ......  i 

PART  I 
THE  GATES  OF  BRASS 

CHAPTER 

I. A  JUG  OF  WATER        .  .  .  .  .II 

II. — CONCERNING  FOOLS  .  2O 

III. — DISCIPLINE        ......  29 

iv. — THE  MOTHER'S  HELP          ....  37 

V. — LIFE  ON  A  CHAIN        .....  43 

VI. — THE  RACE           ......  49 

VII. A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 59 

VIII. — A  TALK  BY  THE  FIRE              ....  67 

IX. — THE  TICKET  OF  LEAVE          ....  74 

X. SPORT       .......  8l 

XI. — THE  STAR  OF  HOPE                 .            .             .  88 

XII. — A  PAIR  OF  GLOVES       .....  97 

vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XIII. — THE  VISION      .  .  .  *  *  .116 

XIV. — A  MAN'S  CONFIDENCE          .  ,  .  .124 

XV. — THE  SCHEME    .  .  .  .  .  .134 

XVI. — THE  WARNING 140 

XVII. — THE  PLACE  OF  TORMENT    ....       148 

XVIII. — HORNS  AND  HOOFS    .....       157 

XIX. — THE  DAY  OF  TROUBLE         .  .  .  .       1 66 

XX. THE  STRAIGHT  TRUTH          .  .  .  .172 

XXI. — THE  ENCHANTED  LAND        .  .  ,  «       177 

XXII. — THE  COMING  OF  A  FRIEND  .  183 

xxin. — A  FRIEND'S  COUNSEL        .         .         .         .191 

XXIV. — THE  PROMISE  ......  2OO 

XXV. — DROSS      .......  2O5 

XXVI. — SUBSTANCE        .  •  •  •  '•  2K) 

XXVII. — SHADOW  ......  220 

XXVIII. THE  EVESHAM  DEVIL  •  239 

XXIX. — A  WATCH  IN  THE  NIGHT     ....  249 

XXX. — THE  CONFLICT  .  *  ...  257 

XXXI. — THE  RETURN     ......  27<D 

XXXII. — THE  DECISION.  28l 


Contents  ix 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIII. — THE  LAST  DEBT  .  .  .  .  .286 

XXXIV. — THE  MESSAGE 2Q9 

XXXV. — THE  DARK  HOUR         .....  305 

XXXVI. THE  SUMMONS              .             .             .             .             .  311 

xxxvn. — "LA  GRANDE  PASSION"     .         .         .         .319 

XXXVIII. — THE  SWORD  OF  DAMOCLES              '.            .            .  329 

PART  II 
'  THE  PLACE  OF  TORMENT 

I. — DEAD  SEA  FRUIT         .....  339 

II. THAT  WHICH  IS  HOLY            .                           .             .  349 

III. THE  FIRST  GUEST        .  .  .  .  .3^2 

IV. — THE  PRISONER  IN  THE  DUNGEON            .             .  370 

V. — THE  SWORD  FALLS     .....  379 

VI. — THE  MASK         ......  390 

VII. THE  GATES  OF  HELL              ....  397 

VIII. A  FRIEND  IN  NEED    ...                           .  406 

IX. — THE  GREAT  GULF       .             .            ,             .             .  413 

X. — SANCTUARY      ......  424 

XI. — THE  FALLING  NIGHT             .             .             .            •  432 

XII. THE  DREAM 438 

XIII. — THE  HAND  OF  THE  SCULPTOR       .             .             .  448 


x  Contents 

PART  III 
THE  OPEN  HEAVEN 

CHARTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  VERDICT  .    .    .    .    .    .  46! 

II. — THE  TIDE  COMES  BACK   .    .    .    .471 

III. — THE  GAME   .    .    .    .    .    .  477 

IV. — THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN  .  .  .  488 

V. — THE  DESERT  ROAD  .....  498 

VI. — THE  ENCOUNTER  .....  503 

VII. THE  PLACE  OF  REPENTANCE  .  .  .  5IO 

VIII. — THE  RELEASE  OF  THE  PRISONER         .         -519 

IX. — HOLY  GROUND         .....  529 

EPILOGUE     .         .         ...         .         .         .         .  537 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


PROLOGUE 

"CIGHT?     I'll  fight   you   with   pleasure,   but   I  shall 
1        probably  kill  you  if  I  do.    Do  you  want  to  be  killed  ? " 
Brief  and  contemptuous  the  question  fell.     The  speaker 
was  a  mere  lad.     He  could  not  have  been  more  than  nine 
teen.     But  he  held  himself  with  the  superb  British  assur 
ance  that  has  its  root  in  the  British  public  school  and  which, 
once  planted,  in  certain  soils  is  wholly  ineradicable. 

The  man  he  faced  was  considerably  his  superior  in  height 
and  build.  He  also  was  British,  but  he  had  none  of  the 
other's  careless  ease  of  bearing.  He  stood  like  an  angry 
bull,  with  glaring,  bloodshot  eyes. 

He  swore  a  terrific  oath  in  answer  to  the  scornful  enquiry. 
"I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body!"  he  vowed.  "You 
little,  sneering  bantam,  I'll  smash  your  face  in!  I'll  thrash 
you  to  a  pulp!" 

The  other  threw  up  his  head  and  laughed.  He  was  sub 
limely  unafraid.  But  his  dark  eyes  shone  red  as  he  flung 
back  the  challenge.  ' '  All  right ,  you  drunken  bully !  Try ! ' ' 
he  said. 

They  stood  in  the  garish  light  of  a  Queensland  bar,  sur 
rounded  by  an  eager,  gaping  crowd  of  farmers,  boundary- 
riders,  sheep-shearers,  who  had  come  down  to  this  township 

i 


2  The  Bars  of  Iron 

on  the  coast  on  business  or  pleasure  at  the  end  of  the  shear 
ing  season. 

None  of  them  knew  how  the  young  Englishman  came  to 
be  among  them.  He  seemed  to  have  entered  the  drinking- 
saloon  without  any  very  definite  object  in  view,  unless  he 
had  been  spurred  thither  by  a  spirit  of  adventure.  And 
having  entered,  a  boyish  interest  in  the  motley  crowd,  which 
was  evidently  new  to  him,  had  induced  him  to  remain.  He 
had  sat  in  a  corner,  keenly  observant  but  wholly  unob 
trusive,  for  the  greater  part  of  an  hour,  till  in  fact  the  atten 
tion  of  the  great  bully  now  confronting  him  had  by  some 
ill-chance  been  turned  in  his  direction. 

The  man  was  three  parts  drunk,  and  for  some  reason,  not 
very  comprehensible,  he  had  chosen  to  resent  the  presence 
of  this  clean-limbed,  clean-featured  English  lad.  Possibly 
he  recognized  in  him  a  type  which  for  its  very  cleanness  he 
abhorred.  Possibly  his  sodden  brain  was  stirred  by  an 
envy  which  the  Colonials  round  him  were  powerless  to 
excite.  For  he  also  was  British-born.  And  he  still  bore 
traces,  albeit  they  were  not  very  apparent  at  that  moment, 
of  the  breed  from  which  he  had  sprung. 

Whatever  the  cause  of  his  animosity,  he  had  given  it  full 
and  ready  vent.  A  few  coarse  expressions  aimed  in  the 
direction  of  the  young  stranger  had  done  their  work.  The 
boy  had  risen  to  go,  with  disgust  written  openly  upon  his 
face,  and  instantly  the  action  had  been  seized  upon  by  the 
older  man  as  a  cause  for  offence. 

He  had  not  found  his  victim  slow  to  respond.  In  fact 
his  challenge  had  been  flung  back  with  an  alacrity  that 
had  somewhat  astonished  the  bystanders  and  rendered 
interference  a  matter  of  some  difficulty. 

But  one  of  them  did  at  this  juncture  make  his  voice 
heard  in  a  word  of  admonition  to  the  half-tipsy  aggressor. 

"You  had  better  mind  what  you  do,  Samson.  There 
will  be  a  row  if  that  young  chap  gets  hurt." 


Prologue  3 

"Yes,  he'd  better  get  out  of  it,"  said  one  or  two. 

But  the  young  chap  in  question  turned  on  them  with  a 
flash  of  his  white  teeth.  "Don't  you  worry  yourselves!" 
he  said.  " If  he  wants  to  fight — let  him!" 

They  muttered  uneasily  in  answer.  It  was  plain  that 
Samson's  bull-strength  was  no  allegory  to  them.  But  the 
boy's  confidence  remained  quite  unimpaired.  He  faced 
his  adversary  with  the  lust  of  battle  in  his  eyes. 

"Come  on,  you  slacker!"  he  said.  "I  like  a  good  fight. 
Don't  keep  me  waiting!" 

The  bystanders  began  to  laugh,  and  the  man  they  called 
Samson  turned  purple  with  rage.  He  flung  round  furi 
ously.  "There's  a  yard  at  the  back,"  he  cried.  "We'll 
settle  it  there.  I'll  teach  you  to  use  your  spurs  on  me, 
my  young  game-cock!" 

"Come  on  then!"  said  the  stranger.  "P'r'aps  I  shall 
teach  you  something  too!  You'll  probably  be  killed,  as  I 
said  before;  but  if  you'll  take  the  risk  I  have  no  objection.'' 

Again  the  onlookers  raised  a  laugh.  They  pressed  round 
to  see  the  face  of  the  English  boy  who  was  so  supremely 
unafraid.  It  was  a  very  handsome  face,  but  it  was  not 
wholly  English.  The  eyes  were  too  dark  and  too  passion 
ate,  the  straight  brows  too  black,  the  features  too  finely 
regular.  The  mouth  was  mobile,  and  wayward  as  a  wo 
man's,  but  the  chin  might  have  been  modelled  in  stone — 
a  fighting  chin,  aggressive,  indomitable.  There  was  some 
thing  of  the  ancient  Roman  about  the  whole  cast  of  his 
face  which,  combined  with  that  high  British  bearing,  made 
him  undeniably  remarkable.  Those  who  looked  at  him 
once  generally  turned  to  look  again. 

One  of  the  spectators — a  burly  Australian  farmer — 
pushed  forward  from  the  throng  and  touched  his  arm. 
"Look  here,  my  son!"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  "You've 
no  business  here,  and  no  call  to  fight  whatever.  Clear  out 
of  it — quick!  Savvy?  I'll  cover  your  tracks." 


4  The  Bars  of  Iron 

The  boy  drew  himself  up  with  a  haughty  movement. 
Plainly  for  the  moment  he  resented  the  advice.  But  the 
next  very  suddenly  he  smiled. 

"Thanks!  Don't  trouble!  I  can  hold  my  own  and  a 
bit  over.  There's  no  great  difficulty  in  downing  a  drunken 
brute  like  that." 

"Don't  you  be  too  cock-sure!"  the  farmer  warned  him. 
"He's  a  heavy  weight,  and  he's  licked  bigger  men  than 
you  when  he's  been  in  just  the  state  he's  in  now." 

But  the  English  boy  only  laughed,  and  turned  to  follow 
his  adversary. 

Every  man  present  pressed  after  him.  A  well-sustained 
fight,  though  an  event  of  no  uncommon  occurrence,  was  a 
form  of  entertainment  that  never  failed  to  attract.  They 
crowded  out  to  the  back  premises  in  a  body,  unhindered 
by  any  in  authority. 

A  dingy  backyard  behind  the  house  furnished  ground 
for  the  fray.  Here  the  spectators  gathered  in  a  ring  around 
an  arc  of  light  thrown  by  a  stable-lamp  over  the  door,  and 
the  man  they  called  Samson  proceeded  with  savage  energy 
to  strip  to  the  waist. 

The  young  stranger's  face  grew  a  shade  more  disdainful 
as  he  noted  the  action.  He  himself  removed  coat,  waist 
coat,  and  collar,  all  of  which  he  handed  to  the  farmer  who 
had  offered  to  assist  him  in  making  good  his  escape. 

"Just  look  after  these  for  a  minute!"  he  said. 

"You're  a  cool  hand,"  said  the  other  man  admiringly. 
"I'll  see  you  don't  get  bullied  anyhow." 

The  young  man  nodded  his  thanks.  He  looked  down  at 
his  hands  and  slowly  clenched  and  opened  them  again. 

"Oh,  I  shan't  be  bullied,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  grim 
conviction. 

And  then  the  fight  began. 

It  was  obvious  from  the  outset  that  it  could  not  be  a  very 
prolonged  one.  Samson  attacked  with  furious  zest.  He 


Prologue  5 

evidently  expected  to  find  his  opponent  very  speedily  at 
his  mercy,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  husband  his  strength. 
But  his  blows  went  wide.  The  English  lad  avoided  them 
with  an  agility  that  kept  him  practically  unscathed.  Had 
he  been  a  hard  hitter,  he  might  have  got  in  several  blows 
himself,  but  he  only  landed  one  or  two.  His  face  was  set 
and  white  as  a  marble  mask  in  which  only  the  eyes  lived — 
eyes  that  watched  with  darting  intensity  for  the  chance  to 
close.  And  when  that  chance  came  he  took  it  so  suddenly 
and  so  unexpectedly  that  not  one  of  the  hard-breathing, 
silent  crowd  around  him  saw  exactly  how  he  gained  his 
hold.  One  moment  he  was  avoiding  a  smashing,  right- 
handed  blow;  the  next  he  had  his  adversary  locked  in  a 
grip  of  iron,  the  while  he  bent  and  strained  for  the  mastery. 

From  then  onwards  an  element  that  was  terrible  became 
apparent  in  the  conflict.  From  a  simple  fisticuff  it  de 
veloped  into  a  deadly  struggle  between  skilled  strength  and 
strength  that  was  merely  brutal.  Silently,  with  heaving, 
convulsive  movements,  the  two  struggling  figures  swayed 
to  and  fro.  One  of  Samson's  arms  was  imprisoned  in  that 
unyielding  clutch.  The  other  rained  blows  upon  his  ad 
versary's  head  and  shoulders  that  produced  no  further 
effect  than  if  they  had  been  bestowed  upon  cast-iron. 

The  grip  of  the  boy's  arms  only  grew  tighter  and  tighter 
with  snake-like  force,  while  a  dreadful  smile  came  into  the 
young  face  and  became  stamped  there,  engraved  in  rigid 
lines.  His  lower  lip  was  caught  between  his  teeth,  and  a 
thin  stream  of  blood  ran  from  it  over  the  smooth,  clean-cut 
chin.  It  was  the  only  sign  he  gave  that  he  was  putting 
forth  the  whole  of  his  strength. 

A  murmur  of  surprise  that  had  in  it  a  note  of  uneasiness 
began  to  run  through  the  ring  of  onlookers.  They  had 
seen  many  a  fight  before,  but  never  a  fight  like  this.  Sam 
son's  face  had  gone  from  red  to  purple.  His  eyes  had  begun 
to  start.  Quite  plainly  he  also  was  taken  by  surprise. 


6  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Desperately,  with  a  streaming  forehead,  he  changed  his 
tactics.  He  had  no  skill.  Until  that  day  he  had  relied 
upon  superior  strength  and  weight  to  bring  him  victorious 
through  every  casual  fray;  and  it  had  never  before  failed 
him.  But  that  merciless,  suffocating  hold  compelled  him 
to  abandon  offensive  measures  to  effect  his  escape.  He 
stopped  his  wild  and  futile  hammering  and  with  his  one 
free  hand  he  grasped  the  back  of  his  opponent's  neck. 

The  move  was  practically  inevitable,  but  its  effect  was 
such  as  only  one  anticipated.  That  one  was  his  adversary, 
who  slowly  bent  under  his  weight  as  though  overcome 
thereb}^,  shifting  his  grip  lower  and  lower  till  it  almost 
looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  collapse  altogether.  But  just 
as  the  breaking-point  seemed  to  be  reached  there  came  a 
change.  He  gathered  himself  together  and  with  gigantic 
exertion  began  to  straighten  his  bent  muscles.  Slowly  but 
irresistibly  he  heaved  his  enemy  upwards.  There  came  a 
moment  of  desperate,  confused  struggle;  and  then,  as  the 
man  lost  his  balance  at  last,  he  relaxed  his  grip  quite 
suddenly,  flinging  him  headlong  over  his  shoulder. 

It  was  a  clean  throw,  contrived  with  masterly  assurance, 
the  result  of  deliberate  and  trained  calculation.  The  bully 
pitched  upon  his  head  on  the  rough  stones  of  the  yard,  and 
turned  a  complete  somersault  with  the  violence  of  his  fall. 

A  shout  of  amazement  went  up  from  the  spectators. 
This  end  of  the  struggle  was  totally  unexpected. 

The  successful  combatant  remained  standing  with  the 
sweat  pouring  from  his  face  and  the  blood  still  running  down 
his  chin.  He  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  slow,  mechani 
cal  movement  as  if  to  test  the  condition  of  his  muscles  after 
the  tremendous  strain  he  had  put  upon  them.  Then,  still 
as  it  were  mechanically,  he  felt  the  torn  collar-band  of  his 
shirt,  with  speculative  ringers.  Finally  he  whizzed  round 
on  the  heels  and  stared  at  the  huddled  form  of  his  fallen 
foe. 


Prologue  7 

A  shabby  little  man  with  thick,  sandy  eyebrows  had  gone 
to  his  assistance,  but  he  lay  quite  motionless  in  a  twisted, 
ungainly  attitude.  The  flare  of  the  lamp  was  reflected  in 
his  glassy,  upturned  eyes.  Dumbly  his  conqueror  stood 
staring  down  at  him.  He  seemed  to  stand  above  them  all 
in  that  his  moment  of  dreadful  victory. 

He  spoke  at  length,  and  through  his  voice  there  ran  a 
curious  tremor  as  of  a  man  a  little  giddy,  a  little  dazed  by 
immense  and  appalling  height. 

"I  thought  I  could  do  it!"  he  said.  "I— thought  I 
could!" 

It  was  his  moment  of  triumph,  of  irresistible  elation. 
The  devil  in  him  had  fought — and  conquered. 

It  swayed  him — and  passed.  He  was  left  white  to  the 
lips  and  suddenly,  terribly,  afraid. 

"What  have  I  done  to  him?"  he  asked,  and  the  tremor 
was  gone  from  his  voice;  it  was  level,  dead  level.  "I 
haven't  killed  him  really,  have  I?" 

No  one  answered  him.  They  were  crowding  round  the 
fallen  man,  stooping  over  him  with  awe-struck  whispering, 
straightening  the  crumpled,  inert  limbs,  trying  to  place  the 
heavy  frame  in  a  natural  posture. 

The  boy  pressed  forward  to  look,  but  abruptly  his 
supporter  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  pulled  him  back. 

"No,  no!"  he  said  in  a  sharp  undertone.  "You're  no 
good  here.  Get  out  of  it!  Put  on  your  clothes  and — go!" 

He  spoke  urgently.  The  boy  stared  at  him,  suffering 
the  compelling  hand.  All  the  fight  had  gone  completely 
out  of  him.  He  was  passive  with  the  paralysis  of  a  great 
horror. 

The  farmer  helped  him  into  his  clothes,  and  himself 
removed  the  blood-stain  from  the  lad's  dazed  face.  "  Don't 
be  a  fool!"  he  urged.  "Pull  yourself  together  and  clear 
out!  This  thing  was  an  accident.  I'll  engineer  it." 

"Accident!"     The    boy    straightened    himself    sharply 


8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

with  the  movement  of  one  brought  roughly  to  his  senses. 
"I  suppose  the  throw  broke  his  neck,"  he  said.  "But  it 
was  no  accident.  I  did  it  on  purpose.  I  told  him  I  should 
probably  kill  him,  but  he  would  have  it."  He  turned  and 
squarely  faced  the  other.  "I  don't  know  what  I  ought  to 
do,"  he  said,  speaking  more  collectedly.  "But  I'm  cer 
tainly  not  going  to  bolt." 

The  farmer  nodded  with  brief  comprehension.  He  had 
the  steady  eyes  of  a  man  accustomed  to  the  wide  spaces  of 
the  earth.  "That's  all  right,"  he  said,  and  took  him  firmly 
by  the  arm.  "  You  come  with  me.  My  name  is  Crowther. 
We'll  have  a  talk  outside.  There's  more  room  there. 
You've  got  to  listen  to  reason.  Come!" 

He  almost  dragged  the  boy  away  with  the  words.  No 
one  intercepted  or  spoke  a  word  to  delay  them.  Together 
they  passed  back  through  the  empty  drinking-saloon — the 
boy  with  his  colourless  face  and  set  lips,  the  man  with  his 
resolute,  far-seeing  eyes — and  so  into  the  dim  roadway 
beyond. 

They  left  the  lights  of  the  reeking  bar  behind.  The 
spacious  night  closed  in  upon  them. 


PART  I 
THE  GATES  OF  BRASS 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   JUG   OF   WATER 

IT  was  certainly  not  Caesar's  fault.  Caesar  was  as  well- 
meaning  a  Dalmatian  as  ever  scampered  in  the  wake 
of  a  cantering  horse.  And  if  Mike  in  his  headlong  Irish 
fashion  chose  to  regard  the  scamper  as  a  gross  personal 
insult,  that  was  surely  not  a  matter  for  which  he  could 
reasonably  be  held  responsible.  And  yet  it  was  upon  the 
luckless  Caesar  that  the  wrath  of  the  gods  descended  as  a 
consequence  of  Mike's  wrong-headed  deductions. 

It  began  with  a  rush  and  a  snarl  from  the  Vicarage  gate, 
and  it  had  developed  into  a  set  and  deadly  battle  almost 
before  either  of  the  combatants  had  fully  realized  the 
other. 

The  rider  drew  rein,  yelling  furiously;  but  his  yells  were 
about  as  effectual  as  the  wail  of  an  infant.  Neither  animal 
was  so  much  as  aware  of  his  existence  in  those  moments  of 
delirious  warfare.  They  were  locked  already  in  that  silent, 
swaying  grip  which  every  fighting  dog  with  any  knowledge 
of  the  great  game  seeks  to  establish,  to  break  which  mere 
humans  may  put  forth  their  utmost  strength  in  vain. 

The  struggle  was  a  desperate  and  a  bloody  one,  and  it 
speedily  became  apparent  to  the  rider  that  he  would  have 
to  dismount  if  he  intended  to  put  an  end  to  it. 

Fiercely  he  flung  himself  off  his  horse  and  threw  the 
reins  over  the  Vicarage  gate-post.  Then,  riding-crop  in 
hand,  he  approached  the  swaying  fighting  animals.  It  was 


12  The  Bars  of  Iron 

like  a  ghastly  wrestling-match.  Both  were  on  their  feet, 
struggling  to  and  fro,  each  with  jaws  hard  gripped  upon  the 
other's  neck,  each  silent  save  for  his  spasmodic  efforts  to 
breathe. 

"Stop  it,  damn  you!"  shouted  the  rider,  slashing  at  them 
with  the  zeal  of  unrestrained  fury.  "Caesar,  you  infernal 
brute,  stop  it,  will  you?  I'll  kill  you  if  you  don't!" 

But  Caesar  was  deaf  to  all  threats  and  quite  uncon 
scious  of  the  fact  that  his  master  and  not  his  enemy  was 
responsible  for  the  flail-like  strokes  of  the  whirling  lash. 
They  shifted  from  beneath  it  instinctively,  but  they  fought 
deliriously  on. 

And  at  that  the  man  with  the  whip  completely  lost  his 
self-control.  He  set  to  work  to  thrash  and  thrash  the 
fighting  animals  till  one  or  other  of  them — or  himself — 
should  become  exhausted. 

It  developed  into  a  horrible  competition  organized  and 
conducted  by  the  man's  blind  fury,  and  in  what  fashion  it 
would  have  ended  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  But,  luckily 
for  all  three,  there  came  at  length  an  interruption.  Some 
one — a  woman — came  swiftly  out  of  the  Vicarage  garden 
carrying  a  bedroom  jug.  She  advanced  without  a  pause 
upon  the  seething,  infuriated  group. 

"It's  no  good  beating  them,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which, 
though  somewhat  hurried,  was  one  of  clear  command. 
"Get  out  of  the  way,  and  be  ready  to  catch  your  dog  when 
they  come  apart!" 

The  man  glanced  round  for  an  instant,  his  face  white 
with  passion.  "I'll  kill  the  brutes!"  he  declared. 

"Indeed  you  won't,"  she  returned  promptly.  "Stand 
away  now  or  you  will  be  drenched!" 

As  she  spoke  she  raised  her  jug  above  the  struggling 
animals.  Her  face  also  shone  white  in  the  wintry  dusk, 
but  her  actions  denoted  unwavering  resolution. 

"Now!"  she  said;  and,  since  he  would  not  move,  she 


A  Jug  of  Water  13 

flung  the  icy  water  without  compunction  over  the  dogs 
and  him  also. 

"Damnation!"  he  cried  violently.  But  she  broke  in 
upon  him.  "Quick!  Quick!  Now's  the  time!  Grab 
your  dog!  I'll  catch  Mike!" 

The  urgency  of  the  order  compelled  compliance.  Almost 
in  spite  of  himself  he  stooped  to  obey.  And  so  it  came  to 
pass  that  five  seconds  later,  Caesar  was  being  mercilessly 
thrashed  by  his  enraged  master,  while  the  real  culprit  was 
being  dragged,  cursing  breathlessly,  from  the  scene. 

It  was  a  brutal  thrashing  and  wholly  undeserved.  Cassar, 
awaking  to  the  horror  of  it,  howled  his  anguish;  but  no 
amount  of  protest  on  his  part  made  the  smallest  impres 
sion  upon  the  wielder  of  the  whip.  It  continued  to  de 
scend  upon  his  writhing  body  with  crashing  force  till  he 
rolled  upon  the  ground  in  agony. 

Even  then  the  punishment  would  not  have  ceased,  but 
for  a  second  interruption.  It  was  the  woman  from  the 
Vicarage  garden  again;  but  she  burst  upon  the  scene  this 
time  with  something  of  the  effect  of  an  avalanche.  She 
literally  whirled  between  the  man  and  his  victim.  She 
caught  his  upraised  arm. 

"Oh,  you  brute!"  she  cried.     "You  brute!" 

He  stiffened  in  her  hold.  They  stood  face  to  face. 
Cassar  crept  whining  and  shivering  to  the  side  of  the 
road. 

Slowly  the  man's  arm  fell  to  his  side,  still  caught  in  that 
quivering  grasp.  He  spoke  in  a  voice  that  struggled  boy 
ishly  between  resentment  and  shame.  "The  dog's  my 
own." 

Her  hold  relaxed.  "Even  a  dog  has  his  rights,"  she 
said.  "Give  me  that  whip,  please!" 

He  looked  at  her  oddly  in  the  growing  darkness.  She 
was  trembling  as  she  stood,  but  she  held  her  ground. 

"Please!"  she  repeated  with  resolution. 


14  The  Bars  of  Iron 

With  an  abrupt  movement  he  put  the  weapon  into  her 
hand.  "Are  you  going  to  give  me  a  taste?"  he  asked. 

She  uttered  a  queer  little  gasping  laugh.  "No.  I — I'm 
not  that  sort.  But — it's  horrible  to  see  a  man  lose  control 
of  himself.  And  to  thrash  a  dog — like  that!" 

She  turned  sharply  from  him  and  went  to  the  Dalmatian 
who  crouched  quaking  on  the  path.  He  wagged  an  ingra 
tiating  tail  at  her  approach.  It  was  evident  that  in  her 
hand  the  whip  had  no  terrors  for  him.  He  crept  fawning 
to  her  feet. 

She  stooped  over  him,  fondling  his  head.  "Oh,  poor 
boy!  Poor  boy!"  she  said. 

The  dog's  master  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "He'll 
be  all  right,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  half-surly  apology. 

"I'm  afraid  Mike  has  bitten  him,"  she  said.  "See!" 
displaying  a  long,  dark  streak  on  Caesar's  neck. 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  repeated  Caesar's  master.  "I  hope 
your  dog  is  none  the  worse." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said.  "But  don't  you  think 
we  ought  to  bathe  this?" 

"I'll  take  him  home,"  he  said.  "They'll  see  to  him  at 
the  stables." 

She  stood  up,  a  slim,  erect  figure,  the  whip  still  firmly 
grasped  in  her  hand.  "You  won't  thrash  him  any  more, 
will  you?"  she  said. 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "No,  you  have  cooled  me  down 
quite  effectually.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  interfering. 
And  I'm  sorry  I  used  language,  but  as  the  circumstances 
were  exceptional,  I  hope  you  will  make  allowances." 

His  tone  was  boyish  still,  but  all  the  resentment  had  gone 
out  of  it.  There  was  a  touch  of  arrogance  in  his  bearing 
which  was  obviously  natural  to  him,  but  his  apology  was 
none  the  less  sincere. 

The  slim  figure  on  the  path  made  a  slight  movement  of 
dismay.  "But  you  must  be  drenched  to  the  skin!"  she 


A  Jug  of  Water  15 

said.  "I  was  forgetting.  Won't  you  come  in  and  get 
dry?" 

He  hunched  his  shoulders  expressively.  "No,  thanks. 
It  was  my  own  fault,  as  you  kindly  omit  to  mention.  I 
must  be  getting  back  to  the  Abbey.  My  grandfather  is 
expecting  me.  He  fidgets  if  I'm  late." 

He  raised  a  hand  to  his  cap,  and  would  have  turned  away, 
but  she  made  a  swift  gesture  of  surprise,  which  arrested 
him.  "Oh,  you  are  young  Mr.  Evesham! — I  beg  your 
pardon — you  are  Mr.  Evesham!  I  thought  I  must  have 
seen  you  before!" 

He  stopped  with  a  laugh.  "I  am  commonly  called 
'  Master  Piers '  in  this  neighbourhood.  They  won't  let  me 
grow  up.  Rather  a  shame,  what?  I'm  nearly  twenty- 
five,  and  the  head-keeper  still  refers  to  me  in  private  as 
'that  dratted  boy.'" 

She  laughed  for  the  first  time.  Possibly  he  had  angled 
for  that  laugh.  "Yes,  it  is  a  shame!"  she  agreed.  "But 
then  Sir  Beverley  is  rather  old,  isn't  he?  No  doubt  it's 
the  comparison  that  does  it." 

"He  isn't  old,"  said  Piers  Evesham  in  sharp  contradic 
tion.  "He's  only  seventy-four.  That's  not  old  for  an 
Evesham.  He'll  go  for  another  twenty  years.  There's 
.a  saying  in  our  family  that  if  we  don't  die  violently,  we 
never  die  at  all."  He  pulled  himself  up  abruptly.  "I've 
given  you  my  name  and  history.  Won't  you  tell  me 
yours?" 

She  hesitated  momentarily.  "I  am  only  the  mother's 
help  at  the  Vicarage,"  she  said  then. 

"By  Jove!  I  don't  envy  you."  He  looked  at  her  with 
frank  interest  notwithstanding.  "I  suppose  you  do  it  for 
a  living,"  he  remarked.  "Personally,  I'd  sooner  sweep  a 
crossing  than  live  in  the  same  house  with  that  mouthing 
parson." 

"Hush!"  she  said,  but  her  lips  smiled  as  she  said  it — 


1 6  The  Bars  of  Iron 

a  small  smile  that  would  not  be  denied.  "I  must  go  in 
now.  Here  you  are!"  She  gave  him  back  his  whip. 
"  Good-bye !  Get  home  quick — and  change ! " 

He  turned  half-re'.uctantly ;  then  paused.  "You  might 
tell  me  your  name  anyway,"  he  said. 

She  had  begun  to  move  away,  light-footed,  swift  as  a 
bird.  She  also  paused. 

"My  name  is  Denys,"  she  said. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  cap  again.     " Miss  Denys?" 

"No.     Mrs.  Denys.     Good-bye!" 

She  was  gone.  He  heard  the  light  feet  running  up  the 
wet  gravel  drive  and  then  the  qu'ck  opening  of  a  door.  It 
closed  again  immediately,  with  decision,  and  he  stood  alone 
in  the  wintry  dusk. 

Caesar  crept  to  hiiii  and  grovelled  abjectly  in  the  mud.  The 
young  man  stood  motionless,  staring  at  the  Vicarage  gates, 
a  slight  frown  between  his  brows.  He  was  not  tall,  but  he 
had  the  free  pose  of  an  athlete  and  the  bearing  of  a  prince. 

Suddenly  he  glanced  down  at  his  cringing  companion 
and  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Get  up,  Caesar,  you  fool!  And 
think  yourself  lucky  that  you've  got  any  sound  bones  left ! 
You'd  have  been  reduced  to  a  jelly  by  this  time  if  I'd  had 
my  way." 

He  bent  with  careless  good-nature,  and  patted  the 
miscreant;  then  turned  towards  his  horse. 

"Poor  old  Pompey!  A  shame  to  keep  you  standing! 
All  that  brute's  fault."  He  swung  himself  into  the  saddle. 
"By  Jove,  though,  she's  got  some  pluck!"  he  said.  " I  like 
a  woman  with  pluck!" 

He  touched  his  animal  with  the  spur,  and  in  a  moment 
they  were  speeding  through  the  gathering  dark  at  a  brisk 
canter.  Pompey  was  as  anxious  to  get  home  as  was  his 
master,  and  he  needed  no  second  urging.  He  scarcely 
waited  to  get  within  the  gates  of  the  Park  before  he  gathered 
himself  together  and  went  like  the  wind.  His  rider  lay 


A  Jug  of  Water  17 

forward  in  the  saddle  and  yelled  encouragement  like  a  wild 
Indian.  Caesar  raced  behind  them  like  a  hare. 

The  mad  trio  went  like  a  flash  past  old  Marshall  the  head- 
keeper  who  stood  gun  on  shoulder  at  the  gate  of  his  lodge 
and  looked  after  them  with  stern  disapproval. 

"Drat  the  boy!  What's  he  want  to  ride  hell-for-leather 
like  that  for?"  he  grumbled.  "He'll  go  and  kill  himself 
one  of  these  days  as  his  father  did  before  him." 

It  was  just  twenty-five  years  since  Piers'  father  had  been 
carried  dead  into  Marshall's  cottage,  and  Marshall  had 
stumped  up  the  long  avenue  to  bear  the  news  to  Sir  Bever- 
ley.  Piers  was  about  the  same  age  now  as  that  other  Piers 
had  been,  and  Marshall  had  no  mind  to  take  part  in  a 
similar  tragedy.  It  had  been  a  bitter  task,  that  of  telling 
Sir  Beverley  that  his  only  son  was  dead ;  but  to  have  borne 
him  ill  tidings  of  his  grandson  would  have  been  infinitely 
harder.  For  Sir  Severely  had  never  loved  his  son  through 
the  whole  of  his  brief,  tempestuous  life;  but  his  grandson 
was  the  very  core  of  his  existence,  as  everyone  knew,  despite 
his  strenuous  efforts  to  disguise  the  fact. 

No,  emphatically  Marshall  had  not  the  faintest  desire 
to  have  to  inform  the  old  man  that  harm  had  befallen 
Master  Piers,  and  his  frown  deepened  as  he  trudged  up  his 
little  garden  and  heard  the  yelling  voice  and  galloping 
hoofs  grow  faint  in  the  distance. 

"The  boy  is  madder  even  than  his  father  was,"  he 
muttered  darkly.  "Bad  stock!  Bad  stock!" 

He  shook  his  head  over  the  words,  and  went  within.  He 
was  the  only  man  left  on  the  estate  who  could  remember 
the  beautiful  young  Italian  bride  whom  Sir  Beverley  had 
once  upon  a  time  brought  to  reign  there.  It  had  been  a 
short,  short  reign,  and  no  one  spoke  of  it  now, — least  of  all 
the  old,  bent  man  who  ruled  like  a  feudal  lord  at  Rodding 
Abbey,  and  of  whom  even  the  redoubtable  Marshall  himself 
stood  in  awe. 


i8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

But  Marshall  remembered  her  well,  and  it  was  upon 
that  dazzling  memory  that  his  thoughts  dwelt  when  he  gave 
utterance  to  his  mysterious  verdict.  For  was  not  Master 
Piers  the  living  image  of  her?  Had  he  not  the  same  impe 
rial  bearing  and  regal  turn  of  the  head  ?  Did  not  the  Eve- 
sham  blood  run  the  hotter  in  his  veins  for  that  passionate 
Southern  strain  that  mingled  with  it? 

Marshall  sometimes  wondered  how  Sir  Beverley  with 
his  harsh  intolerance  brooked  the  living  likeness  of  the  boy 
to  the  woman  in  whose  bitter  memory  he  hated  all  women. 
It  was  scarcely  possible  that  he  blinded  himself  to  it.  It 
was  too  vividly  apparent  for  that.  "A  perpetual  eyesore," 
Marshall  termed  it  in  private.  But  then  there  was  no  ac 
counting  for  the  ways  of  folk  in  high  places.  Marshall  did 
not  pretend  to  understand  them.  He  was,  in  his  own  grumpy 
fashion,  sincerely  attached  to  his  master,  and  he  never  pre 
sumed  to  criticize  his  doings.  He  only  wondered  at  them. 

As  for  Master  Piers,  he  had  been  an  unmitigated  nuisance 
to  him  personally  ever  since  he  had  learned  to  walk  alone. 
Marshall  had  always  disapproved  of  him,  and  he  hated 
Victor,  the  French  valet,  who  had  brought  him  up  from  his 
cradle.  Yet  deep  in  his  surly  old  heart  there  lurked  a  cer 
tain  grudging  affection  for  him  notwithstanding.  The  boy 
had  a  winning  way  with  him,  and  but  for  his  hatred  of 
Victor,  who  was  soft  and  womanish,  but  extremely  tenacious, 
Marshall  would  have  liked  to  have  had  a  hand  in  his  up 
bringing.  As  it  was,  he  could  only  look  on  from  afar  and 
condemn  the  vagaries  of  "that  dratted  boy,"  prophesying 
disaster  whenever  he  saw  him  and  hoping  that  Sir  Beverley 
might  not  live  to  see  it.  Certainly  it  seemed  as  if  Piers 
bore  a  charmed  life,  for,  like  his  father  before  him,  he  risked 
it  practically  every  day.  With  sublime  self-confidence, 
he  laughed  at  caution,  ever  choosing  the  shortest  cut, 
whatever  it  might  entail;  and  it  was  remarkably  seldom 
that  he  came  to  grief. 


A  Jug  of  Water  19 

As  he  clattered  into  the  stable-yard  on  that  dark  Novem 
ber  evening,  his  face  was  sparkling  with  excitement  as 
though  he  had  drunk  strong  wine.  The  animal  he  rode 
was  covered  with  foam,  and  danced  a  springy  war-dance  on 
the  stones.  Caesar  trotted  in  behind  them  with  tail  erect 
and  a  large  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his  spotty  face  despite 
the  gory  streak  upon  his  neck. 

"Confound  it!  I'm  late!"  said  Piers,  throwing  his  leg 
over  his  horse's  neck.  "It's  all  that  brute's  fault.  Look 
at  him  grinning!  Better  wash  him  one  of  you!  He  can't 
come  in  in  that  state."  He  slipped  to  the  ground  and 
stamped  his  sodden  feet.  "I'm  not  much  better  off  myself. 
What  a  beastly  night,  to  be  sure!" 

"Yes,  you're  wet,  sir!"  remarked  the  groom  at  Pompey's 
head.  "Had  a  tumble,  sir?" 

"No.  Had  a  jug  of  water  thrown  over  me,"  laughed 
Piers.  "Caesar  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  He's  been  snig 
gering  all  the  way  home."  He  snapped  his  fingers  in  the 
dog's  complacent  face.  "By  Jove!"  he  said  to  him,  "I 
couldn't  grin  like  that  if  I'd  had  the  thrashing  you've  had. 
And  I  couldn't  kiss  the  hand  that  did  it  either.  You're  a 
gentleman,  Caesar,  and  I  humbly  apologize.  Look  after  ,.„••-. 
him,  Phipps!  He's  been  a  bit  mauled.  Good-night! 
Good-night,  Pompey  lad!  You've  carried  me  well."  He 
patted  the  horse's  foam-flecked  neck,  and  turned  away. 

As  he  left  the  stable-yard,  he  was  whistling  light-heartedly, 
and  Phipps  glanced  at  a  colleague  with  a  slight  flicker  of 
one  eyelid. 

v" Wonder  who  chucked  that  jug  of  water!"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  II 

CONCERNING   FOOLS 

IN  the  huge,  oak-panelled  hall  of  the  Abbey,  Sir  Beverlcy 
Evesham  sat  alone. 

A  splendid  fire  of  logs  blazed  before  him  on  the  open 
hearth,  and  the  light  from  a  great  chandelier  beat  mercilessly 
down  upon  him.  His  hair  was  thick  still  and  silvery  white. 
He  had  the  shoulders  of  a  strong  man,  albeit  they  were 
slightly  bowed.  His  face,  clean-shaven,  aristocratic,  was 
the  colour  of  old  ivory.  The  thin  lips  were  quite  bloodless. 
They  had  a  downward,  bitter  curve,  as  though  they  often 
sneered  at  life.  The  eyes  were  keen  as  a  bird's,  stone-grey 
under  overhanging  black  brows. 

He  held  a  newspaper  in  one  bony  hand,  but  he  was  not 
apparently  reading,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed.  The  shining 
suits  of  armour  standing  like  sentinels  on  each  side  of  the 
fireplace  were  not  more  rigid  than  he. 

There  came  a  slight  sound  from  the  other  end  of  the  hall, 
and  instantly  and  very  sharply  Sir  Beverley  turned  his 
head. 

"Piers!" 

Cheerily  Piers'  voice  made  answer.  He  shut  the  door 
behind  him  and  came  forward  as  he  spoke.  "Here  I  am, 
sir!  I'm  sorry  I'm  late.  You  shouldn't  have  waited. 
You  never  ought  to  wait.  I'm  never  in  at  the  right  time." 

"Confound  you,  why  aren't  you  then?"  burst  forth  Sir 
Beverley.  "It's  easy  to  say  you're  sorry,  isn't  it?" 

20 


Concerning  Fools  21 

"Not  always,"  said  Piers. 

He  came  to  the  old  man,  bent  down  over  him,  slid  a 
boyish  arm  around  the  bent  shoulders.  "Don't  be  waxy!" 
he  coaxed.  "I  couldn't  help  it  this  time." 

"Get  away,  do!"  said  Sir  Beverley,  jerking  himself 
irritably  from  him.  ''I  detest  being  pawed  about,  as  you 
very  well  know.  In  Heaven's  name,  have  your  tea,  if  you 
want  it!  I  shan't  touch  any.  It's  past  my  time." 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Piers.     "If  you  don't,  I  shan't." 

"Yes,  you  will."  Sir  Beverley  pointed  an  imperious 
hand  towards  a  table  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  "Go 
and  get  it  and  don't  be  a  fool!" 

"I'm  not  a  fool,"  said  Piers. 

"Yes,  you  are — a  damn'  fool!"  Sir  Beverley  returned  to 
his  newspaper  with  the  words.  "And  you'll  never  be 
anything  else!"  he  growled  into  the  silence  that  succeeded 
them. 

Piers  clattered  the  tea-things  and  said  nothing.  There 
was  no  resentment  visible  upon  his  sensitive,  olive  face, 
however.  He  looked  perfectly  contented.  He  turned 
round  after  a  few  seconds  with  a  cup  of  steaming  tea  in  his 
hand.  He  crossed  the  hearth  and  set  it  on  the  table  at 
Sir  Beverley's  elbow. 

"That's  just  as  you  like  it,  sir,"  he  urged.  "Have  it — 
just  to  please  me!" 

"Take  it  away!"  said  Sir  Beverley,  without  raising  his 
eyes. 

"It's  only  ten  minutes  late  after  all,"  said  Piers,  with  all 
meekness.  "I  wish  you  hadn't  waited,  though  it  was  jolly 
decent  of  you.  You  weren't  anxious  of  course?  You 
know  I  always  turn  up  some  time." 

"Anxious!"  echoed  Sir  Beverley.  "About  a  cub  like 
you!  You  flatter  yourself,  my  good  Piers." 

Piers  laughed  a  little  and  stooped  over  the  blaze.  Sir 
Beverley  read  on  for  a  few  moments,  then  very  suddenly 


22  The  Bars  of  Iron 

and  not  without  violence  crumpled  his  paper  and  flung  it 
on  the  ground. 

"Of  all  the  infernal,  ridiculous  twaddle!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Now  what  the  devil  have  you  done  to  yourself?  Been 
taking  a  water- jump?" 

Piers  turned  round.  "No,  sir.  It's  nothing.  I  shouldn't 
have  come  in  in  this  state,  only  it  was  late,  and  I  thought 
I'd  better  report  myself." 

"Nothing!"  repeated  Sir  Beverley.  "Why,  you're 
drenched  to  the  skin!  Go  and  change!  Go  and  change' 
Don't  stop  to  argue!  Do  you  hear  me,  sir?  Go  and 
change!" 

He  shouted  the  last  words,  and  Piers  flung  round  on  his 
heel  with  a  hint  of  impatience. 

"And  behave  yourself!"  Sir  Beverley  threw  after  him. 
"If  you  think  I'll  stand  any  impertinence  from  you,  you 
were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life.  Be  off  with  you, 
you  cheeky  young  hound!  Don't  let  me  see  you  again  till 
you're  fit  to  be  seen!" 

Piers  departed  without  a  backward  look.  His  lips  were 
slightly  compressed  as  he  went  up  the  stairs,  but  before  he 
reached  his  own  room  they  were  softly  whistling. 

Victor,  the  valet,  who  was  busily  employed  in  laying  out 
his  evening  clothes,  received  him  with  hands  upraised  in 
horror. 

"Ah,  mais,  Monsieur  Pierre,  how  you  are  wet!" 

"Yes,  I  want  a  bath,"  said  Piers.  "Get  it  quick!  I 
must  be  down  again  in  ten  minutes.  So  scurry,  Victor, 
my  lad!" 

Victor  was  a  cheery  little  rotundity  of  five-and-fifty. 
He  had  had  the  care  of  Piers  ever  since  the  first  fortnight  of 
that  young  man's  existence,  and  he  worshipped  him  with  a 
whole-hearted  devotion  that  was  in  its  way  sublime.  In 
his  eyes  Piers  could  do  no  wrong.  He  was  in  fact  dearer 
to  him  than  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 


Concerning  Fools  23 

He  prepared  the  bath  with  deft  celerity,  and  hastened 
back  to  assist  in  removing  his  young  master's  boots.  He 
exclaimed  dramatically  upon  their  soaked  condition,  but 
Piers  was  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  give  any  details  regarding 
the  cause  of  his  plight.  He  whirled  into  the  bathroom  at 
express  speed,  and  was  out  again  almost  before  Victor  had 
had  time  to  collect  his  drenched  garments. 

Ten  minutes  after  his  departure  he  returned  to  the  hall, 
the  gay  whistle  still  on  his  lips,  and  trod  a  careless  measure 
to  its  tune  as  he  advanced. 

Sir  Beverley  got  up  stiffly  from  his  knees  on  the  hearth 
rug  and  turned  a  scowling  face.  "Well,  are  you  decent 
now?" 

"Quite,"  said  Piers.  He  smiled  as  he  said  it,  a  boyish 
disarming  smile.  "Have  you  had  your  tea,  sir?  Oh,  I 
say  what  a  brick  you  are!  I  didn't  expect  that." 

His  eyes,  travelling  downwards,  had  caught  sight  of  a 
cup  pushed  close  to  the  blaze,  and  a  plate  of  crumpets 
beside  it. 

"Or  deserve  it,"  said  Sir  Beverley  grimly. 

Piers  turned  impulsively  and  took  him  by  the  shoulders. 
"You're  a  dear  old  chap!"  he  said.  "Thanks  awfully!" 

Against  its  will  the  hard  old  mouth  relaxed.  "There, 
boy,  there !  What  an  infant  you  are !  Sit  down  and  have  it 
for  goodness'  sake !  It'll  be  dinner-time  before  you've  done." 

"You've  had  yours?"  said  Piers. 

"Oh,  yes — yes!"  Irritation  made  itself  heard  again  in 
Sir  Beverley 's  voice;  he  freed  himself  from  his  grandson's 
hold,  though  not  urgently.  "  I'm  not  so  keen  on  your  pre 
cious  tea,"  he  said,  seating  himself  again.  "  It's  only  young 
milksops  like  you  that  have  made  it  fashionable.  When 
I  was  young — 

"Hullo!"  broke  in  Piers.  He  had  picked  up  the  cup  of 
tea  and  was  sniffing  it  suspiciously.  "You've  been  doctor 
ing  this!"  he  said. 


24  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"You  drink  it!"  ordered  Sir  Beverley  peremptorily. 
"I'm  not  going  to  have  you  laid  up  with  rheumatic  fever 
if  I  know  it.  Drink  it,  Piers!  Do  you  hear?" 

Piers  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he  were  on  the  verge  of 
rebellion,  then  abruptly  he  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips  and 
drained  it.  He  set  it  down  with  a  shudder  of  distaste. 

"You  might  have  let  me  have  it  separately,"  he  remarked. 
"Tea  and  brandy  don't  blend  well.  I  shall  sleep  like  a  hog 
after  this.  Besides,  I  shouldn't  have  had  rheumatic  fever. 
It's  not  my  way.  Anything  in  the  paper  to-night?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Beverley  disgustedly.  "There's  that 
prize-fight  business." 

"What's  that?"  Piers  looked  up  with  quick  interest. 

"Surely  you  saw  it!"  returned  Sir  Beverley.  "That 
fellow  Adderley — killed  his  man  in  a  wrestling-match. 
A  good  many  people  said  it  was  done  by  a  foul." 

"Adderley!"  repeated  Piers.  "I  know  him.  He  gave 
me  some  quite  useful  tips  once.  What  happened?  It's 
the  first  I've  heard  of  it." 

"Well,  he's  a  murderer,"  said  Sir  Beverley.  "And  he 
deserves  to  be  hanged.  He  killed  his  man, — whether  by 
a  foul  or  not  I  can't  say;  but  anyway  he  meant  to  kill  him. 
It's  obvious  on  the  face  of  it.  But  they  chose  to  bring  it 
in  manslaughter,  and  he's  only  got  five  years;  while  some 
brainless  fool  must  needs  write  an  article  a  column  and  a 
half  long  to  protest  against  the  disgraceful  practice  of 
permitting  wrestling  or  boxing  matches,  which  are  a  sur 
vival  of  the  Dark  Ages  and  a  perpetual  menace  to  our  civi 
lization!  A  survival  of  your  grandmother!  A  nice  set 
of  nincompoops  the  race  will  develop  into  if  such  fools  as 
that  get  their  way!  We're  soft  enough  as  it  is,  Heaven 
knows.  Why  couldn't  they  hang  the  scoundrel  as  he 
deserved?  That's  the  surest  way  of  putting  an  end  to 
savagery.  But  to  stop  the  sport  altogether!  It  would 
be  tomfoolery!" 


Concerning  Fools  25 

Piers  picked  up  the  paper  from  the  floor  and  smoothed 
it  out.  He  proceeded  to  study  it  with  drawn  brows,  and 
Sir  Beverley  sat  and  watched  him  with  that  in  his  stone- 
grey  eyes  which  no  one  was  ever  allowed  to  see. 

"Eat  your  crumpets,  boy!"  he  said  at  last. 

"What?"  Piers  glanced  up  momentarily.  "Oh,  all 
right,  sir,  in  a  minute.  This  is  rather  an  interesting  case, 
what?  You  see,  Adderley  was  a  friend  of  mine." 

"When  did  you  meet  him?"  demanded  Sir  Beverley. 

"  I  knew  him  in  my  school-days.  He  spent  a  whole  term 
in  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  just  before  I  left  for  my 
year  of  travel.  I  got  to  know  him  rather  well.  He  gave 
me  several  hints  on  wrestling." 

"Did  he  teach  you  how  to  break  your  opponent's  neck?" 
asked  Sir  Beverley  drily. 

Piers  made  a  slight,  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of 
one  hand.  It  clenched  upon  the  paper  he  held.  "They 
were — worth  knowing,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
sheet.  "But  I  should  have  thought  he  was  too  old  a  hand 
himself  to  get  into  trouble." 

Sir  Beverley  grunted.  Piers  read  on.  At  the  end  of  a 
lengthy  pause  he  laid  the  paper  aside.  "I'm  beastly  rude," 
he  remarked.  "Have  a  crumpet!" 

"Eat  'em  yourself!"  said  Sir  Beverley.  "I  hate 
'em!" 

Piers  picked  up  the  plate  and  began  to  eat.  He  stared 
at  the  blaze  as  he  did  so,  obviously  lost  in  thought. 

"Don't  dream!"  said  Sir  Beverley  sharply. 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  grandfather's  face — those 
soft  Italian  eyes  of  his  so  suggestive  of  hidden  fire.  "I 
wasn't — dreaming,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  wonder  why  you 
think  Adderley  ought  to  be  hanged." 

"Because  he's  a  murderer,"  snapped  Sir  Beverley. 

"Yes;  but — "  said  Piers,  and  became  silent  as  though  he 
were  following  out  some  train  of  thought. 


26  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Go  on,  boy!  Finish!"  commanded  Sir  Beverley. 
"I  detest  a  sentence  left  in  the  middle." 

"I  was  only  thinking,"  said  Piers  deliberately,  "that 
hanging  in  my  opinion  is  much  the  easier  sentence  of  the 
two.  1  should  ask  to  be  hanged  if  I  were  Adderley." 

"Would  you  indeed?"  Sir  Beverley  sounded  supremely 
contemptuous. 

But  Piers  did  not  seem  to  notice.  "Besides,  there  are 
so  many  murderers  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "though  it's 
only  the  few  who  get  punished.  I'm  sorry  for  the  few  my 
self.  Its  damned  bad  luck,  human  nature  being  what  it  is." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said  Sir 
Beverley. 

"All  right;  let's  talk  about  something  else,"  said  Piers. 
"Caesar  had  a  glorious  mill  with  that  Irish  terrier  brute  at 
the  Vicarage  this  afternoon.  I  couldn't  separate  'em,  so 
I  just  joined  in.  We'd  have  been  at  it  now  if  we  had  been 
left  to  our  own  devices. "  He  broke  into  his  sudden  boyish 
laugh.  "But  a  kind  lady  came  out  of  the  Vicarage  garden 
and  flung  the  contents  of  a  bedroom  jug  over  the  three  of 
us.  Rather  plucky  of  her,  what?  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't 
over-complimentary  at  the  moment,  but  I've  had  time  since 
to  appreciate  her  tact  and  presence  of  mind.  I'm  going 
over  to  thank  her  to-morrow." 

"Who  was  it? "  growled  Sir  Beverley  suspiciously.  "Not 
that  little  white  owl,  Mrs.  Lorimer?" 

"Mrs.  Lorimer!  Great  Scott,  no!  She'd  have  squealed 
and  run  to  the  Reverend  Stephen  for  protection.  No, 
this  was  a  woman,  not  an  owl.  Her  name  is  Denys — Mrs. 
Denys  she  was  careful  to  inform  me.  They've  started  a 
mother's  help  at  the  Vicarage.  None  too  soon  I  should 
say.  Who  wouldn't  be  a  mother's  help  in  that  establish 
ment?" 

Sir  Beverley  uttered  a  dry  laugh.  "Daresay  she  knows 
how  to  feather  her  own  nest.  Most  of  'em  do." 


Concerning  Fools  27 

"She  knows  how  to  keep  her  head  in  an  emergency, 
anyhow,"  remarked  Piers. 

"Feline  instinct,"  jeered  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  looked  across  with  a  laugh  in  his  dark  eyes.  "And 
feline  pluck,  sir,"  he  maintained. 

Sir  Beverley  scowled  at  him.  He  could  never  brook  an 
argument.  "Oh,  get  away,  Piers!"  he  said.  "You  talk 
like  a  fool." 

Piers  turned  his  whole  attention  to  devouring  crumpets, 
and  there  fell  a  lengthy  silence.  He  rose  finally  to  set 
down  his  empty  plate  and  help  himself  to  some  more 
tea. 

"That  stuff  is  poisonous  by  now,"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

"It  won't  poison  me,"  said  Piers. 

He  drank  it,  and  returned  to  the  hearth-rug.  "I  sup 
pose  I  may  smoke?"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  restraint. 

Sir  Beverley  was  lying  back  in  his  chair,  gazing  straight 
up  at  him.  Suddenly  he  reached  out  a  trembling  hand. 

"You're  a  good  boy,  Piers,"  he  said.  "You  may  do 
any  damn'  thing  you  like." 

Piers'  eyes  kindled  in  swift  response.  He  gripped  the 
extended  hand.  "You're  a  brick,  sir!"  he  said.  "Look 
here !  Come  along  to  the  billiard-room  and  have  a  hundred 
up!  It'll  give  you  an  appetite  for  dinner." 

He  hoisted  the  old  man  out  of  his  chair  before  he  could 
begin  to  protest.  They  stood  together  before  the  great 
fire,  and  Sir  Beverley  straightened  his  stiff  limbs.  He  was 
half  a  head  taller  than  his  grandson. 

"What  a  fellow  it  is!"  he  said  half  laughing.  "Why 
can't  you  sit  still  and  be  quiet?  Don't  you  want  to  read 
the  paper?  I've  done  with  it." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Piers.  He  swept  it  up  with  one  hand 
as  he  spoke  and  tossed  it  recklessly  on  to  the  blaze.  "Come 
along,  sir!  We  haven't  much  time." 

"Now  what  did  you  do  that  for?"  demanded  Sir  Bever- 


28  The  Bars  of  Iron 

ley,  pausing.  "Do  you  want  to  set  the  house  on  fire? 
What  did  you  do  it  for,  Piers?" 

"Because  I  was  a  fool,"  said  Piers  with  sudden,  curious 
vehemence.  "A  damn' fool  sir,  if  you  want  to  know.  But 
it's  done  now.  Let  it  burn!" 

The  paper  flared  fiercely  and  crumbled  to  ashes.  Sir 
Beverley  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  away. 

"You're  a  queer  fellow,  Piers,"  he  said.  "But,  taking 
'em  altogether,  I  should  say  there  are  a  good  many  bigger 
fools  in  the  world  than  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Piers. 


CHAPTER  III 

DISCIPLINE 

MRS.  DENYS,  may    I  come  in?"  Jeanie  Lorimer's 
small,  delicate  face  peeped  round  the  door.     "I've 
brought  my  French  exercise  to  do,"  she  said  half-apolo- 
getically.     "I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Of  course  come  in,  dear  child!  I  like  to  have  you." 
The  mother's  help  paused  in  her  rapid  stitching  to  look  up 
with  a  smile  at  the  pretty,  brown-haired  child.  "Come 
close  to  the  light!"  she  said.  "I  hope  it  isn't  a  very  long 
one;  is  it?" 

"It  is — rather,"  Jeanie  sighed  a  sharp,  involuntary  sigh. 
"I  ought  to  have  done  it  sooner,  but  I  was  busy  with  the 
little  ones.  Is  that  Gracie's  frock  you're  mending?  What 
an  awful  tear!"  She  came  and  stood  by  Mrs.  Denys's 
side,  speaking  in  a  low,  rather  monotonous  voice.  A  heavy 
strand  of  her  hair  fell  over  the  work  as  she  bent  to  look ;  she 
tossed  it  back  with  another  sigh.  "Gracie  is  such  a  tom 
boy,"  she  said.  "It's  a  pity,  isn't  it?" 

"My  dear,  you're  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Denys  gently.  She 
put  a  motherly  arm  about  the  slim  body  that  leaned  against 
her,  looking  up  into  the  pale  young  face  with  eyes  of  kindly 
criticism. 

"A  little  tired,"  said  Jeanie. 

"I  shouldn't  do  that  exercise  to-night  if  I  were  you," 
said  Mrs.  Denys.  "You  will  find  it  easier  in  the  morning. 
Lie  down  on  the  sofa  here  and  have  a  little  rest  till  supper 
time!" 

29 


30  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Oh  no,  I  mustn't,"  said  Jeanie.  "Father  will  never 
let  any  of  us  go  to  bed  till  the  day's  work  is  done." 

"But  surely,  when  you're  really  tired — "  began  Mrs. 
Denys. 

But  Jeanie  shook  her  head.  "No ;  thank  you  very  much, 
I  must  do  it.  Olive  did  hers  long  ago." 

"Where  is  Olive?"  asked  Mrs.  Denys. 

"She's  reading  a  story-book  downstairs.  We  may  al 
ways  read  when  we've  finished  our  lessons."  Again  came 
that  short,  unconscious  sigh.  Jeanie  went  to  the  table  and 
sat  down.  "Mother  is  rather  upset  to-night,"  she  said,  as 
she  turned  the  leaves  of  her  book.  "Ronald  and  Julian 
have  been  smoking,  and  she  is  so  afraid  that  Father  will  find 
out.  I  hope  he  won't — for  her  sake.  But  if  they  don't  eat 
any  supper,  he  is  sure  to  notice.  He  flogged  Julian  two 
nights  running  the  last  time  because  he  told  a  lie  about  it." 

A  quick  remark  rose  to  her  listener's  lips,  but  it  was  sup 
pressed  unuttered.  Mrs.  Denys  began  to  stitch  very 
rapidly  with  her  face  bent  over  her  work.  It  was  a  very 
charming  face,  with  level  grey  eyes,  wide  apart,  and  a 
mouth  of  great  sweetness.  There  was  a  fugitive  dimple  on 
one  side  of  it  that  gave  her  a  girlish  appearance  when  she 
smiled.  But  she  was  not  a  girl.  There  was  about  her  an 
air  of  quiet  confidence  as  of  one  who  knew  something  of 
the  world  and  its  ways.  She  was  young  still,  and  it  was 
yet  in  her  to  be  ardent ;  but  she  had  none  of  the  giddy  rest 
lessness  of  youth.  Avery  Denys  was  a  woman  who  had 
left  her  girlhood  wholly  behind  her.  Her  enthusiasms  and 
her  impulses  were  kindled  at  a  steadier  flame  than  the 
flickering  torch  of  youth.  There  was  no  romance  left  in 
her  life,  but  yet  was  she  without  bitterness.  She  had  known 
suffering  and  faced  it  unblenching.  The  only  mark  it  had 
left  upon  her  was  that  air  of  womanly  knowledge  that 
clothed  her  like  a  garment  even  in  her  lightest  moods.  Of 
a  quick  understanding  and  yet  quicker  sympathy,  she  had 


Discipline  31 

learned  to  hold  her  emotions  in  check,  and  the  natural 
gaiety  of  her  hid  much  that  was  too  sacred  to  be  carelessly 
displayed.  She  had  a  ready  sense  of  humour  that  had 
buoyed  her  up  through  many  a  storm,  and  the  brave  heart 
behind  it  never  flinched  from  disaster.  As  her  father  had 
said  of  her  in  the  long-ago  days  of  happiness  and  prosperity, 
she  took  her  hedges  straight. 

For  several  minutes  after  Jeanie's  weary  little  confidence, 
she  worked  in  silence;  then  suddenly,  with  needle  poised, 
she  looked  across  at  the  child. 

Jeanie's  head  was  bent  over  her  exercise-book.  Her 
hair  lay  in  a  heavy  mass  all  about  her  shoulders.  There 
was  a  worried  frown  between  her  brows.  Slowly  her  hand 
travelled  across  the  page,  paused,  wrote  a  word  or  two, 
paused  again. 

Suddenly  from  the  room  above  them  there  came  the 
shrill  shriek  of  a  violin.  It  wailed  itself  into  silence,  and 
then  broke  forth  again  in  a  series  of  long  drawn-out  whines. 
Jeanie  sighed. 

Avery  laid  down  her  work  with  quiet  decision,  and  went 
to  her  side.  "What  is  worrying  you,  dear?"  she  asked 
gently.  "I'm  not  a  great  French  scholar,  but  I  think  I 
may  be  able  to  help." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jeanie,  in  her  voice  of  tired  courtesy. 
"  You  mustn't  help  me.  No  one  must." 

"  I  can  find  the  words  you  don't  know  in  the  dictionary," 
said  Avery. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Jeanie.  "Father  doesn't  like 
us  to  have  help  of  any  kind." 

There  were  deep  shadows  about  the  eyes  she  raised  to 
Avery's  face,  but  they  smiled  quite  bravely,  with  all 
unconscious  wistfulness. 

Avery  laid  a  tender  hand  upon  the  brown  head  and 
drew  it  to  rest  against  her.  "Poor  little  thing!"  she  said 
compassionately. 


32  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"But  I'm  not  little  really,  you  know,"  said  Jeanie,  closing 
her  eyes  for  a  few  stolen  moments.  "I'm  thirteen  in 
March.  And  they're  all  younger  than  me  except  Ronnie 
and  Julian." 

Avery  bent  with  a  swift,  maternal  movement  and  kissed 
the  blue-veined  forehead.  Jeanie  opened  her  eyes  in  slight 
surprise.  Quite  plainly  she  was  not  accustomed  to  sudden 
caresses. 

"I'm  glad  we've  got  you,  Mrs.  Denys,"  she  said,  with 
her  quiet  air  of  childish  dignity.  "You  are  a  great  help 
to  us." 

She  turned  back  to  her  French  exercise  with  the  words, 
and  Avery,  after  a  moment's  thought,  turned  to  the  door. 
She  heard  again  the  child's  sigh  of  weariness  as  she  closed 
it  behind  her. 

The  wails  of  the  violin  were  very  audible  in  the  passage 
outside.  She  shivered  at  the  atrocious  sounds.  From  a 
further  distance  there  came  the  screams  of  an  indignant 
baby  and  the  strident  shouts  of  two  small  boys  who  were 
racing  to  and  fro  in  an  uncarpeted  room  at  the  top  of  the 
house.  But  after  that  one  shiver  Avery  Denys  had  no 
further  attention  to  bestow  upon  any  of  these  things.  She 
went  with  her  quick,  light  tread  down  to  the  square  hall 
which  gave  a  suggestion  of  comfort  to  the  Vicarage  which 
not  one  of  its  rooms  endorsed. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  she  knocked  upon  the 
first  door  she  came  to.  A  voice  within  gave  her  permission 
to  enter,  and  she  did  so. 

The  Reverend  Stephen  Lorimer  turned  from  his  writing- 
table  with  a  face  of  dignified  severity  to  receive  her,  but 
at  sight  of  her  his  expression  changed  somewhat. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Denys!  You,  is  it?  Pray  come  in!"  he  said 
urbanely.  "Is  there  any  way  in  which  I  can  be  of  service 
to  you?" 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  very  small,  so  small  that  they 


Discipline  33 

nearly  disappeared  when  he  smiled.  But  for  this  slight 
defect,  Mr.  Lorimer  would  have  been  a  handsome  man.  He 
rose  as  Avery  approached  and  placed  a  chair  for  her  with 
elaborate  courtesy. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  only  ran  in  for  a  moment — 
just  to  tell  you  that  little  Jeanie  is  so  tired  to-night.  She 
has  had  no  time  for  her  lessons  all  the  afternoon  because 
she  has  been  helping  with  the  little  ones  in  the  nursery. 
She  insists  upon  doing  her  French  exercise,  but  I  am  sure 
you  would  not  wish  her  to  do  it  if  you  knew  how  worn  out 
the  child  is.  May  I  tell  her  to  leave  it  for  to-night?" 

She  spoke  quickly  and  very  earnestly,  with  clear  eyes 
raised  to  Mr.  Lorimer's  face.  She  watched  his  smile  fade 
and  his  eyes  reappear  as  she  made  her  appeal. 

He  did  not  reply  to  it  for  some  seconds,  and  a  sharp 
doubt  went  through  her.  She  raised  her  brows  in  mute 
interrogation. 

"Yes,  my  dear  Mrs.  Denys,"  he  said,  in  response  to  her 
unspoken  query,  "I  see  that  you  appreciate  the  fact  that 
there  are  at  least  two  points  of  view  to  every  proposition. 
You  tell  me  that  Jeanie  was  occupied  in  the  nursery  during 
that  period  of  the  day  which  should  legitimately  have  been 
set  aside  for  the  assimilation  of  learning.  I  presume  her 
presence  there  was  voluntary?" 

"Oh,  quite."  There  was  a  hint  of  sharpness  in  Avery 's 
rejoinder.  "She  went  out  of  the  goodness  of  her  heart 
because  Nurse  had  been  up  practically  all  night  with  Baby 
and  needed  a  rest  and  I  was  obliged  to  go  into  Warden- 
hurst  for  Mrs.  Lorimer.  So  Jeanie  took  charge  of  Bertie 
and  David,  and  Gracie  and  Pat  went  with  me." 

Mr.  Lorimer  waved  a  protesting  hand.  "Pray  spare 
yourself  and  me  all  these  details,  Mrs.  Denys!  I  am  glad 
to  know  that  Jeanne  has  been  useful  to  you,  but  at  the 
same  time  she  has  no  right  to  offer  duty  upon  the  altar  of 
kindness.  You  will  acknowledge  that  to  obey  is  better 


34  The  Bars  of  Iron 

than  sacrifice.  As  a  matter  of  principle,  I  fear  I  cannot 
remit  any  of  her  task,  and  I  trust  that  on  the  next  occasion 
she  will  remember  to  set  duty  first." 

A  hot  flush  had  risen  in  Avery's  face  and  her  eyes  sparkled, 
but  she  restrained  herself.  There  was  no  indignation  in 
her  voice  as  she  said:  "Mr.  Lorimer,  believe  me,  that  child 
will  never  shirk  her  duty.  She  is  far  too  conscientious. 
It  is  really  for  the  sake  of  her  health  that  I  came  to  beg 
you  to  let  her  off  that  French  exercise.  I  am  sure  she  is 
not  strong.  Perhaps  I  did  wrong  to  let  her  be  in  the  nursery 
this  afternoon,  though  I  scarcely  know  how  else  we  could 
have  managed.  But  that  is  my  fault,  not  hers.  I  take 
full  responsibility  for  that." 

Mr.  Lorimer  began  to  smile  again.  "That  is  very  gener 
ous  of  you,"  he  said.  "But,  as  a  matter  of  justice,  I  doubt 
if  the  whole  burden  of  it  should  fall  to  your  share.  You 
presumably  were  unaware  that  Jeanne's  afternoon  should 
have  been  devoted  to  her  studies.  She  cannot  plead  a  like 
ignorance.  Therefore,  while  dimissing  the  petition,  I  hold 
you  absolved  from  any  blame  in  the  matter.  Pray  do  not 
distress  yourself  any  further!" 

"I  certainly  thought  it  was  a  half -holiday,"  A  very  ad 
mitted.  "But  I  am  distressed — very  greatly  distressed — • 
on  the  child's  account.  She  is  not  fit  for  work  to-night." 

Mr.  Lorimer  made  an  airy  gesture  expressive  of  semi- 
humorous  regret.  "Discipline,  my  dear  Mrs.  Denys,  must 
be  maintained  at  all  costs — even  among  the  members  of 
your  charming  sex.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  waiting  to 
administer  punishment  to  one  of  my  sons  at  the  present 
moment  for  an  act  of  disobedience." 

He  glanced  towards  the  writing-table  on  which  lay  a 
cane,  and  again  the  quick  blood  mounted  in  Avery's 
face. 

"Oh,  don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  hard  on  your  child 
ren?"  she  said;  and  then  impulsively,  "No;  forgive  mef 


Discipline  35 

I  ought  not  to  put  it  like  that.  But  do  you  find  it  answers 
to  be  so  strict?  Does  it  make  them  any  more  obedient?" 

He  raised  his  shoulders  slightly ;  his  eyes  gleamed  moment 
arily  ere  they  vanished  into  his  smile.  He  shook  his  head 
at  her  with  tolerant  irony.  "I  fear  your  heart  runs  away 
with  you,  Mrs.  Denys,  and  I  must  not  suffer  myself  to 
listen  to  you.  I  have  my  duty — my  very  distinct  duty — • 
to  perform,  and  I  must  not  shirk  it.  As  to  the  results,  they 
are  in  other  Hands  than  mine." 

There  came  a  low  knock  at  the  door  as  he  finished  speak 
ing,  and  he  turned  at  once  to  answer  it. 

Come  in!" 

The  door  opened,  and  a  very  small,  very  nervous  boy 
crept  round  it.  A  quick  exclamation  rose  to  Avery's  lips 
before  she  could  suppress  it.  Mr.  Lorimer  looked  at  her 
interrogatively. 

"I  was  only  surprised  to  see  Pat,"  she  explained.  "He 
has  been  with  me  all  the  afternoon.  I  hardly  thought  he 
could  have  had  time  to  get  into  trouble." 

"Come  here,  Patrick!"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 

Patrick  advanced.  He  looked  neither  at  Avery  nor  his 
father,  but  kept  his  eyes  rigidly  downcast.  His  freckled 
face  had  a  half -frightened,  half -sullen  expression.  He 
halted  before  Mr.  Lorimer  who  took  him  by  the  shoulder, 
and  turned  him  round  towards  Avery. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Denys  what  you  did!"  he  said. 

Pat  shot  a  single  glance  upwards,  and  made  laconic  reply. 
"I  undid  Mike." 

"Oh,  dear!"  exclaimed  Avery  in  great  distress.  "I'm 
afraid  that  was  my  fault." 

"Yours,  Mrs.  Denys?"  Mr.  Lorimer's  eyes  became  visible 
as  two  brilliant  pin-points  turned  searchingly  upon  her  face. 

"Yes,  mine!"  she  reiterated.  "Mike  was  whining  on  his 
chain,  and  I  said  I  thought  it  was  cruel  to  keep  a  dog  tied 
up.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  kept  my  thoughts  to  myself," 


36  The  Bars  of  Iron 

she  said  with  a  pathetic  little  smile.  "Do  please  forgive 
us  both  this  time!" 

Mr.  Lorimer  ignored  the  appeal.  "And  do  you  know 
what  happened  in  consequence  of  his  being  liberated?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  do."  Ruefully  she  made  answer.  "He  fought 
Mr.  Evesham's  dog  and  I  helped  to  pull  him  off." 

"You,  Mrs.  Denys!" 

"Yes,  I."  She  nodded.  "There  wasn't  much  damage 
done,  anyhow  to  Mike.  I  am  very,  very  sorry,  Mr.  Lori 
mer.  But  really  Pat  is  not  to  blame  for  this.  Won't  you — • 
please " 

She  stopped,  for  very  decidedly  Mr.  Lorimer  interrupted 
her.  "I  am  afraid  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Denys. 
You  may  have  spoken  unadvisedly,  but  Patrick  was  aware 
that  in  releasing  the  dog  he  was  acting  in  direct  opposition 
to  my  orders.  Therefore  he  must  bear  his  own  punishment. 
I  must  beg  that  for  the  future  you  will  endeavour  to  be  a 
little  more  discreet  in  your  observations.  Patrick,  open 
the  door  for  Mrs.  Denys!" 

It  was  a  definite  dismissal — perhaps  the  most  definite 
that  Avery  had  ever  had  in  her  life.  A  fury  of  resentment 
possessed  her,  but  feeling  her  self-control  to  be  tottering, 
she  dared  not  give  it  vent.  She  turned  in  quivering  silence 
and  departed. 

As  she  went  out  of  the  room,  she  perceived  that  Pat  had 
begun  to  cry. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  MOTHER'S  HELP 

"IT'S  always  the  same,"  moaned  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "My 
1  poor  children !  They're  never  out  of  trouble." 
Avery  stood  still.  She  had  fled  to  the  drawing-room  to 
recover  herself,  only  to  find  the  lady  of  the  house  lying  in 
tears  upon  the  sofa  there.  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  very  small 
and  pathetic.  She  had  lost  all  her  health  long  before  in  the 
bearing  and  nurturing  of  her  children.  Once  upon  a  time 
she  must  have  possessed  the  delicate  prettiness  that  char 
acterized  her  eldest  daughter  Jeanie,  but  it  had  faded  long 
since.  She  was  worn  out  now,  a  tired,  drab  little  woman, 
with  no  strength  left  to  stand  against  adversity.  The  only 
consolation  in  her  life  was  her  love  for  her  husband.  Him 
she  worshipped,  not  wholly  blindly,  but  with  a  devotion 
that  never  faltered.  A  kind  word  from  him  was  capable 
of  exalting  her  to  a  state  of  rapture  that  was  only  out 
matched  by  the  despair  engendered  by  his  displeasure. 
There  was  so  much  of  sorrow  mingled  with  her  love  for  her 
children  that  they  could  scarcely  have  been  regarded  as  a 
joy.  In  fact  Avery  often  thought  to  herself  how  much 
happier  she  would  have  been  without  them. 

"Do  sit  down,  Mrs.  Denys!"  she  begged  nervously,  as 
Avery  remained  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
"Stay  with  me  for  a  little,  won't  you?  I  can  never  bear 
to  be  alone  when  any  of  the  children  are  being  punished. 
I  sometimes  think  Pat  is  the  worst  of  all.  He  is  so  highly 

37 


38  The  Bars  of  Iron 

strung,  and  he  loses  his  head.  And  Stephen  doesn't  quite 
understand  him,  and  he  is  so  terribly  severe  when  they 
rebel.  And  did  you  know  that  Ronald  and  Julian  had 
been  smoking  again  on  the  way  back  from  school?  They 
look  so  dreadfully  ill,  both  of  them.  I  know  their  father 
will  find  out." 

Mrs.  Lorimer's  whispered  words  went  into  soft  weeping. 
She  hid  her  face  in  the  cushion. 

A  curious  little  spasm  went  through  A  very,  and  for  a 
few  mad  seconds  she  wanted  to  burst  into  heartless  laughter. 
She  conquered  the  impulse  with  a  desperate  effort  though 
it  left  her  feeling  slightly  hysterical. 

She  moved  across  to  the  forlorn  little  woman  and  stooped 
over  her. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear  Mrs.  Lorimer ! "  she  urged.  "  It  doesn  t 
do  any  good.  Perhaps  Ronald  and  Julian  are  better  by 
now.  Shall  we  go  upstairs  and  see?" 

The  principle  was  a  wrong  one  and  she  knew  it,  but  for 
the  life  of  her  she  could  not  have  resisted  the  temptation 
at  that  moment.  She  had  an  unholy  desire  to  get  the 
better  of  the  Reverend  Stephen  which  would  not  be  denied. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  checked  her  tears.  "You're  very  kind," 
she  murmured  shakily. 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  sat  up.  "  Do  you  think  it  would 
be  wrong  to  give  them  a  spoonful  of  brandy?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 

But  Avery's  principles  were  proof  against  this  at  least. 
"Yes,  I  do,"  she  said.  "But  we  can  manage  quite  well 
without  it.  Let  us  go,  shall  we,  and  see  what  can  be  done  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  very  wicked,"  sighed  Mrs.  Lorimer. 
"I'm  very  thankful  to  have  you  with  us,  dear.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  do  without  you." 

Avery's  pretty  mouth  took  an  unfamiliar  curve  of  grim- 
ness  for  a  moment,  but  she  banished  it  at  once.  She 
slipped  a  sustaining  hand  through  Mrs.  Lorimer's  arm. 


The  Mother's  Help  39 

"Thank  you  for  saying  so,  though,  you  know,  I've  only 
been  with  you  a  fortnight,  and  I  don't  feel  that  I  have  done 
very  much  to  deserve  such  high  praise." 

"I  don't  think  time  has  much  to  do  with  friendship," 
said  Mrs.  Lorimer,  looking  at  her  with  genuine  affection  in 
her  faded  blue  eyes.  "Do  you  know  I  became  engaged  to 
my  husband  before  I  had  known  him  a  fortnight?" 

But  this  was  a  subject  upon  which  A  very  found  it  difficult 
to  express  any  sympathy,  and  she  gently  changed  it.  "  You 
are  looking  very  tired.  Don't  you  think  you  could  lie 
down  for  a  little  in  your  bedroom  before  supper  ? ' ' 

"  I  must  see  the  poor  boys  first,"  protested  Airs.  Lorimer. 

"Yes,  of  course.     We  will  go  straight  up,  shall  we?" 

She  led  her  to  the  door  with  the  words,  and  they  went 
out  together  into  the  hall.  As  they  emerged,  a  sudden  burst 
of  stormy  crying  came  from  the  study.  Pat  was  literally 
howling  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

His  mother  stopped  and  wrung  her  hands.  "Oh,  what 
is  to  be  done?  He  always  cries  like  that.  He  used  to  as  a 
baby — the  only  one  of  them  who  did.  Mrs.  Denys,  what 
shall  I  do?  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  it." 

Avery  drew  her  on  towards  the  stairs.  "My  dear,  come 
away!"  she  said  practically.  "You  can't  do  anything. 
Interference  will  only  make  matters  worse.  Let  us  go 
right  up  to  the  boys'  room !  Pat  is  sure  to  come  up  directly." 

They  went  to  the  boys'  room.  It  was  a  large  attic  in 
which  the  three  elder  boys  slept.  Ronald  and  Julian, 
aged  fifteen  and  fourteen  respectively,  were  both  lying 
prostrate  on  their  beds. 

Julian  uttered  a  forced  laugh  at  the  sight  of  his  mother's 
face.  "My  dear  Mater,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  come 
fussing  round  here!  We've  been  smoking  some  filthy 
cigars — little  beastly  Brown  dared  us  to — and  there's  been 
the  devil  to  pay.  I  can't  get  up.  My  tummy  won't  let 
me." 


40  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Oh,  Julian,  why  do  you  do  it?"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer,  in 
great  distress.  "You  know  what  your  father  said  the  last 
time." 

She  bent  over  him.  Julian  was  her  favourite  of  them 
all.  But  he  turned  his  face  sharply  to  avoid  her  kiss. 

"Don't,  Mater!  I  don't  feel  up  to  it.  I  can't  jaw 
either.  I  believe  those  dashed  cigars  were  poisoned. 
Hullo,  Ronald,  are  you  quieting  down  yet?" 

"Shut  up!"  growled  Ronald. 

His  brother  laughed  again  sardonically.  "Stick  to  it, 
my  hearty !  There's  a  swishing  in  store  for  us.  The  mater 
always  gives  the  show  away." 

"Julian!"  It  was  Avery's  voice;  she  spoke  with  quick 
decision.  "You've  got  exactly  an  hour — you  and  Ronald — 
to  pull  yourselves  together.  Don't  lie  here  any  longer! 
Get  up  and  go  out!  Go  for  a  hard  walk!  No,  of  course 
you  don't  feel  like  it.  But  it  will  do  you  good.  You  want 
to  get  that  horrible  stuff  out  of  your  lungs.  Quick!  Go 
now — while  you  can!" 

"But  I  can't!"  declared  Julian. 

"Yes,  you  can, — you  must!  You  too,  Ronald!  Where 
are  your  coats?  Pop  them  on  and  make  a  dash  for  it! 
You'll  come  back  better.  Perhaps  you  will  get  out  of  the 
swishing  after  all." 

Julian  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her  by  the  light  of 
the  flaring,  unshaded  gas-jet.  "By  Jove!"  he  said.  "You're 
rather  a  brick,  Mrs.  Denys." 

"Don't  stop  to  talk!"  she  commanded.  "Just  get  up 
and  do  as  I  say.  Go  down  the  back  stairs,  mind!  I'll  let 
you  in  again  in  time  to  get  ready  for  supper." 

Julian  turned  to  his  brother.  "What  do  you  say  to  it, 
Ron'" 

"Can't  be  done,"  groaned  Ronald. 

"Oh  yes,  it  can."  Sheer  determination  sounded  in 
Avery's  response.  "Get  up,  both  of  you!  If  it  makes  you 


The  Mother's  Help  41 

ill,  it  can't  be  helped.  You  will  neither  of  you  get  any 
better  lying  here.  Come,  Ronald!"  She  went  to  him 
briskly.  "Get  up!  I'll  help  you.  There!  That's  the 
way.  Splendid!  Now  keep  it  up!  don't  let  yourself  go 
again!  You  will  feel  quite  different  when  you  get  out 
into  the  open  air." 

By  words  and  actions  she  urged  them,  Mrs.  Lorimer 
standing  pathetically  by,  till  finally,  fired  by  her  energy, 
the  two  miscreants  actually  managed  to  make  their  escape 
without  mishap. 

She  ran  downstairs  to  see  them  go,  returning  in  time  to 
receive  the  wailing  Pat  who  had  been  sent  to  bed  in  a  state 
verging  on  hysterics.  Neither  she  nor  his  mother  could 
calm  him  for  some  time,  and  when  at  length  he  was  some 
what  comforted  one  of  the  younger  boys  fell  down  in  an 
adjacent  room  and  began  to  cry  lustily. 

Avery  went  to  the  rescue,  earnestly  entreating  Mrs. 
Lorimer  to  go  down  to  her  room  and  rest.  She  was  able 
to  soothe  the  sufferer  and  leave  him  to  the  care  of  the  nurse, 
and  she  then  followed  Mrs.  Lorimer  whom  she  found 
bathing  her  eyes  and  trying  not  to  cry. 

So  piteous  a  spectacle  was  she  that  Avery  found  further 
formality  an  absolute  impossibility.  She  put  her  arm  round 
the  little  woman  and  begged  her  not  to  fret. 

"No,  I  know  it's  wrong,"  whispered  Mrs.  Lorimer, 
yielding  like  a  child  to  the  kindly  support.  "But  I  can't 
help  it  sometimes.  You  see,  I'm  not  very  strong — just 
now."  She  hesitated  and  glanced  at  Avery  with  a  guilty 
air.  "I — I  haven't  told  him  yet,"  she  said  in  a  lower 
whisper  still.  "Of  course  I  shall  have  to  soon;  but — I'm 
afraid  you  will  think  me  very  deceitful — I  like  to  choose  a 
favourable  time,  when  the  children  are  not  worrying  him 
quite  so  much.  I  don't  want  to — to  vex  him  more  than  I 
need." 

"My    dear!"    Avery    said    compassionately.     And    she 


42  The  Bars  of  Iron 

added  as  she  had  added  to   the  daughter  half  an  hour 
before,  "Poor  little  thing!" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  gave  a  feeble  laugh,  lifting  her  face.  "You 
are  a  sweet  girl,  Avery.  I  may  call  you  that?  I  do  hope 
the  work  won't  be  too  much  for  you.  You  mustn't  let  me 
lean  on  you  too  hard." 

"You  shall  lean  just  as  hard  as  you  like,"  Avery  said, 
and,  bending,  kissed  the  tired  face.  "I  am  here  to  be  a 
help  to  you,  you  know.  Yes,  do  call  me  Avery !  I'm  quite 
alone  in  the  world,  and  it  makes  it  feel  like  home.  Now 
you  really  must  lie  down  till  supper.  And  you  are  not  to 
worry  about  anything.  I  am  sure  the  boys  will  come  back 
much  better.  There!  Is  that  comfortable ?" 

"Quite,  dear,  thank  you.  You  mustn't  think  about  me 
any  more.  Good-bye!  Thank  you  for  all  your  goodnes? 
to  me!"  Mrs.  Lorimer  clung  to  her  hand  for  a  moment 
"I  was  always  prejudiced  against  mothers'  helps  before," 
she  said  ingenuously.  "But  I  find  you  an  immense  com 
fort — an  immense  comfort.  You  will  try  and  stay,  won't 
you,  if  you  possibly  can?" 

"Yes,"  Avery  promised.  "I  will  certainly  stay — if  it 
rests  with  me." 

Her  lips  were  very  firmly  closed  as  she  went  out  of  the 
room  and  her  grey  eyes  extremely  bright.  It  had  been  a 
strenuous  half-hour. 


CHAPTER  V 

LIFE   ON   A   CHAIN 

,  I  say,  are  you  going  out?"  said  Piers.  "I  was 
just  coming  to  call  on  you." 

"On  me?"  Avery  looked  at  him  with  brows  raised  in 
surprised  interrogation. 

He  made  her  a  graceful  bow,  nearly  sweeping  the  path 
outside  the  Vicarage  gate  with  his  cap.  "Even  so,  madam ! 
On  you!  But  as  I  perceive  you  are  not  at  home  to  callers, 
may  I  be  permitted  to  turn  and  walk  beside  you?" 

As  he  suited  the  action  to  the  words,  it  seemed  super 
fluous  to  grant  the  permission,  and  Avery  did  not  do  so. 

"I  am  only  going  to  run  quickly  down  to  the  post,"  she 
said,  with  a  glance  at  some  letters  she  carried. 

He  might  have  offered  to  post  them  for  her,  but  such  a 
course  did  not  apparently  occur  to  him.  Instead  he  said: 
"I'll  race  you  if  you  like." 

Avery  refrained  from  smiling,  conscious  of  a  gay  glance 
flung  in  her  direction. 

"I  see  you  prefer  to  walk  circumspectly,"  said  Piers. 
"Well,  I  can  do  that  too.  How  is  Mike?  Why  isn't  he 
with  you?" 

"Mike  is  quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  Avery.  "And  he 
is  kept  chained  up." 

"What  an  infernal  shame!"  burst  from  Piers.  "I'd 
sooner  shoot  a  dog  than  keep  him  on  a  chain." 

"So  would  I!"  said  Avery  impulsively. 

The  words  were  out  before  she  could  check  them.  It 

43 


44  The  Bars  of  Iron 

was  a  subject  upon  which  she  found  it  impossible  to 
maintain  her  reticence. 

Piers  grinned  triumphantly  and  thrust  out  a  boyish 
hand.  "Shake!"  he  said.  "We  are  in  sympathy!" 

But  Avery  only  shook  her  head  at  him,  refusing  to  be 
drawn.  "People — plenty  of  nice  people — have  no  idea 
of  the  utter  cruelty  of  it,"  she  said.  "They  think  that  if 
a  dog  has  never  known  liberty,  he  is  incapable  of  desiring 
it.  They  don't  know,  they  don't  realize,  the  bitterness 
of  life  on  a  chain." 

"Don't  know  and  don't  care!"  declared  Piers.  "They 
deserve  to  be  chained  up  themselves.  One  day  on  a  chain 
would  teach  your  nice  people  quke  a  lot.  But  no  one  cul 
tivates  feeling  in  this  valley  of  dry  bones.  It  isn't"  the 
thing  nowadays.  Let  a  dog  whine  his  heart  out  on  a 
chain!  Who  cares?  There's  no  room  for  sentimental 
scruples  of  that  sort.  Can't  you  see  the  Reverend  Stephen 
smile  at  the  bare  idea  of  extending  a  little  of  his  precious 
Christian  pity  to  a  dog?"  He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  that 
rang  defiantly.  "  Now  it's  your  turn ! "  he  said. 

"My  turn?"  Avery  glanced  at  his  dark,  handsome 
face  with  a  touch  of  curiosity. 

He  met  her  eyes  with  his  own  as  if  he  would  beat  them 
back.  "Aren't  you  generous  enough  to  remind  me  that 
but  for  your  timely  interference  I  should  have  beaten  my 
own  dog  to  death  only  yesterday  ?  You  were  almost  ready 
to  flog  me  for  it  at  the  time." 

"Oh,  that!"  Avery  said,  looking  away  again.  "Yes,  of 
course  I  might  remind  you  of  that  if  I  wanted  to  be  personal ; 
but,  you  see, — I  don't." 

"Why  not ! "  said  Piers  stubbornly.  "You  were  personal 
enough  yesterday." 

The  dimple,  for  which  Avery  was  certainly  not  respons 
ible,  appeared  suddenly  near  her  mouth.  "I  am  afraid 
I  lost  my  temper  yesterday,"  she  said. 


Life  on  a  Chain  45 

"How  wrong  of  you!"  said  Piers.  "I  hope  you 
confessed  to  the  Reverend  Stephen." 

She  glanced  at  him  again  and  became  grave.  "No,  I 
didn't  confess  to  anyone.  But  I  think  it's  a  pity  ever  to 
lose  one's  temper.  It  involves  a  waste  of  power." 

"Does  it?"  said  Piers. 

"Yes."  She  nodded  with  conviction.  "We  need  all 
the  strength  we  can  muster  for  other  things.  How  is  your 
dog  to-day?-" 

Piers  ignored  the  question.  "What  other  things?"  he 
demanded. 

She  hesitated. 

"Go  on!"  said  Piers  imperiously. 

A  very  complied  half-reluctantly.  "I  meant — mainly — 
the  burdens  of  life.  We  can't  afford  to  weaken  ourselves 
by  any  loss  of  self-control.  The  man  who  keeps  his  temper 
is  immeasurably  stronger  than  the  man  who  loses  it." 

Piers  was  frowning;  his  dark  eyes  looked  almost  black. 
Suddenly  he  turned  upon  her.  "Mrs.  Denys,  I  have  a 
strong  suspicion  that  your  temper  is  a  sweet  one.  If  so, 
you're  no  judge  of  these  things.  Why  didn't  you  leather 
me  with  my  own  whip  yesterday?  You  had  me  at  your 
mercy." 

A  very  smiled.  Plainly  he  was  set  upon  a  personal  en 
counter,  and  she  could  not  avoid  it.  "Well,  frankly,  Mr. 
Evesham,"  she  said,  "  I  was  never  nearer  to  striking  anyone 
in  my  life." 

"Then  why  did  you  forbear?  You  weren't  afraid  to 
souse  me  with  cold  water." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said.     "I  wasn't  afraid." 

"I  believe  you  were,"  maintained  Piers.  "You're  afraid 
to  speak  your  mind  to  me  now  anyway." 

She  laughed  a  little.  "No,  I'm  not.  I  really  can't 
explain  myself  to  you.  I  think  you  forget  that  we  are 
practically  strangers." 


46  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"You  talk  as  if  I  had  been  guilty  of  familiarity,"  said 
Piers. 

"No,  no!  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Avery  coloured  sud 
denly,  and  the  soft  glow  made  her  wonderfully  fair  to 
see.  "You  know  quite  well  I  didn't  mean  it,"  she  said. 

"It's  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  Piers.  "But  I  really 
didn't  know.  I  thought  you  had  decided  that  I  was  a 
suitable  subject  for  snubbing.  I'm  not  a  bit.  I'm  so 
accustomed  to  it  that  I  don't  care  a —  "  he  paused  with  a 
glance  of  quizzical  daring,  and,  as  she  managed  to  look 
severe,  amended  the  sentence — "that  I  am  practically 
indifferent  to  it.  Airs.  Denys,  I  wish  you  had  struck  me 
yesterday." 

"Really?"  said  Avery. 

"Yes,  really.  I  should  then  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
forgiving  you.  It's  a  pleasure  I  don't  often  get.  You  see, 
I'm  usually  the  one  that's  in  the  wrong." 

She  looked  at  him  then  with  quick  interest ;  she  could  not 
help  it.  But  the  dark  eyes  triumphed  over  her  so  shame 
lessly  that  she  veiled  it  on  the  instant. 

Piers  laughed.  "Mrs.  Denys,  may  I  ask  a  directly 
personal  question?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should,"  said  Avery. 

They  were  nearing  the  pillar-box  at  the  end  of  the  Vicar 
age  lane,  and  she  was  firmly  determined  that  at  that  box 
their  ways  should  separate. 

"I  know  you  think  I'm  bold  and  bad,"  said  Piers.  " Some 
kind  friend  has  probably  told  you  so.  But  I'm  not.  I've 
been  brought  up  badly,  that's  all.  I  think  you  might  bear 
with  me.  I'm  quite  willing  to  be  bullied."  There  was 
actual  pathos  in  the  declaration. 

Again  the  fleeting  dimple  hovered  near  Avery's  mouth. 
"Please  don't  take  my  opinion  for  granted  in  that  way!" 
she  said.  "I  have  hardly  had  time  to  form  one  yet." 

"Then  I  may  ask  my  question?"  said  Piers. 


Life  on  a  Chain  47 

She  turned  steady  grey  eyes  upon  him.  "Yes;  you 
may." 

Piers'  face  was  perfectly  serious.  "Are  you  really 
married?"  he  asked. 

The  level  brows  went  up  a  little.  "I  have  been  a  widow 
for  six  years,"  said  A  very  very  quietly. 

He  stared  at  her  in  surprise  unfeigned.     "  Six  years!  " 

She  replied  in  the  same  quiet  voice.  "I  lost  my  husband 
when  I  was  twenty-two." 

"Great  Heavens  above!"  ejaculated  Piers.  "But  you're 
not — not — I  say,  forgive  me,  I  must  say  it — you  can't  be 
as  old  as  that!" 

"I  am  twenty-nine,"  said  A  very  faintly  smiling. 

They  had  reached  the  letter-box.  She  dropped  in  her 
letters  one  by  one.  Piers  stood  confounded,  looking  on. 

Suddenly  he  spoke.  "And  you've  been  doing  this 
mothers'-helping  business  for  six  years?" 

"Oh  no!"  she  said. 

She  turned  round  from  the  box  and  faced  him.  The  red 
winter  sunset  glowed  softly  upon  her.  Her  grey  eyes 
looked  straight  into  it. 

"No!"  she  said  again.  "I  had  my  little  girl  to  take  care 
of  for  the  first  six  months.  You  see,  she  was  born  blind, 
soon  after  her  father's  death,  and  she  needed  all  the  care 
I  could  give  her." 

Piers  made  a  sharp  movement — a  gesture  that  was 
almost  passionate ;  but  he  said  nothing. 

A  very  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  sunset,  and  looked 
at  him.  "She  died,"  she  said,  "and  that  left  me  with 
nothing  to  do.  I  have  no  near  relations.  So  I  just  had  to 
set  to  work  to  find  something  to  occupy  me.  I  went  into 
a  children's  hospital  for  training,  and  spent  some  years 
there.  Then  when  that  came  to  an  end,  I  took  a  holiday; 
but  I  found  I  wanted  children.  So  I  cast  about  me,  and 
finally  answered  Mr.  Lorimer's  advertisement  and  came 


48  The  Bars  of  Iron 

here."  She  began  to  smile.  "At  least  I  have  plenty  of 
children  now." 

"  Oh ,  I  say ! ' '  broke  in  Piers.  ' '  What  a  perfectly  horrible 
life  you've  had!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  happy, 
what?" 

Avery  laughed.  "I'm  much  too  busy  to  think  about  it. 
And  now  I  really  must  run  back.  I've  promised  to  take 
charge  of  the  babies  this  afternoon.  Good-bye!"  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  frank  friendliness,  as  if  she 
divined  the  sympathy  he  did  not  utter. 

He  gripped  it  hard  for  a  moment.  "Thanks  awfully 
for  being  so  decent  as  to  tell  me!"  he  said,  looking  back  at 
her  with  eyes  as  frank  as  her  own.  "I'm  going  on  down  to 
the  home  farm.  Good-bye!" 

He  raised  his  cap,  and  abruptly  strode  away.  And  in 
the  moment  of  his  going  Avery  found  she  liked  him  better 
than  she  had  liked  him  throughout  the  interview,  for  she 
knew  quite  well  that  he  went  only  in  deference  to  her  wish. 

She  turned  to  retrace  her  steps,  feeling  puzzled.  There 
was  something  curiously  attractive  about  the  young  man's 
personality,  something  that  appealed  to  her,  yet  that  she 
felt  disposed  to  resist.  That  air  of  the  ancient  Roman  was 
wonderfully  compelling,  too  compelling  for  her  taste,  but 
then  his  boyishness  counteracted  it  to  a  very  great  degree. 
There  was  a  hint  of  sweetness  running  through  his  arro 
gance  against  which  she  was  not  proof.  Audacious  he  might 
be,  but  it  was  a  winning  species  of  audacity  that  probably 
no  woman  could  condemn.  She  thought  to  herself  as  she 
returned  to  her  charges  that  she  had  never  seen  a  face  so 
faultlessly  patrician  and  yet  so  vividly  alive.  And  fol 
lowing  that  thought  came  another  that  dwelt  longer  in  her 
mind.  Deprived  of  its  animation,  it  would  not  have  been 
a  happy  face. 

Avery  wondered  why. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   RACE 

' '  T  T  OOR A Y !     No  more  horrid  sums  for  a  whole  month ! ' 

1  1  Gracie  Lorimer's  arithmetic-book  soared  to  the 
ceiling  and  came  down  with  a  bang  while  Gracie  herself 
pivoted,  not  ungracefully,  on  her  toes  till  sheer  giddiness 
and  exhaustion  put  an  end  to  her  rhapsody.  Then  she 
staggered  to  Avery  who  was  darning  the  family  stockings 
by  the  window  and  flung  ecstatic  arms  about  her  neck. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Denys,  aren't  you  glad  it's  holidays?"  she 
gasped.  "We'll  give  you  such  a  lovely  time!" 

"I'm  sure  you  will,  dear,"  said  Avery.  "But  do  mind 
the  needle!" 

She  kissed  the  brilliant  childish  face  that  was  pressed  to 
hers.  vShe  and  Gracie  were  close  friends.  Gracie  was 
eleven,  and  the  prettiest  madcap  of  them  all.  It  was  a 
perpetual  marvel  to  Avery  that  the  child  managed  to  be 
so  happy,  for  she  was  continually  in  trouble.  But  she 
seemed  to  possess  a  cheery  knack  of  throwing  off  adversity. 
She  was  essentially  gay  of  heart. 

"Do  put  away  those  stupid  old  stockings  and  come  out 
with  us!"  she  begged,  still  hanging  over  Avery.  "Don't 
you  hate  darning?  I  do.  We  had  to  do  our  own  before 
you  came.  I  was  very  naughty  one  day  last  summer.  I 
went  out  and  played  in  the  garden  instead  of  mending  my 
stockings,  and  Father  found  out."  Gracie  cast  up  her 
eyes  dramatically.  "He  sent  me  in  to  do  them,  and  went 

49 


50  The  Bars  of  Iron 

off  to  one  of  his  old  parish  parties;  and  I  just  sneaked  out 
as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned  and  went  on  with  the  game. 
But  there  was  no  luck  that  day.  He  came  back  to  fetch 
something  and  caught  me.  And  then — just  imagine!" 
Again  Gracie  was  dramatic,  though  this  time  unconsciously. 
"He  sent  me  to  bed  and — what  do  you  think?  When  he 
came  home  to  tea,  he — whipped  me!" 

Avery  threaded  her  needle  with  care.     She  said  nothing. 

"I  think  it  was  rather  a  shame,"  went  on  Gracie  uncon 
cernedly.  "Because  he  never  whips  Jeanie  or  Olive.  But 
then,  he  can  make  them  cry  without,  and  he  can't  make  me. 
I  'spect  that's  what  made  him  do  it,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  Avery  rather  shortly. 

Gracie  peered  round  into  her  face.  "Mrs.  Denys,  you 
don't  like  Father,  do  you?"  she  said. 

"  My  dear,  that's  not  a  nice  question  to  ask,"  said  Avery, 
with  her  eyes  on  her  work. 

"I  don't  know  why  not,"  said  Gracie.  "I  don't  like  him 
myself,  and  he  knows  I  don't.  He'd  whip  me  again  if  he 
got  the  chance,  but  I'm  too  jolly  careful  now.  I  was 
pleased  that  you  got  Ronnie  and  Julian  off  the  other  day. 
He  never  suspected,  did  he?  I  thought  I  should  have  burst 
during  prayers.  It  was  so  funny." 

"My  dear!"  protested  Avery. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Gracie.  "But  you  aren't  really 
shocked,  dear,  kind  Mrs.  Denys!  You  know  you  aren't. 
I  can  see  your  sweet  little  dimple.  No,  I  can't!  Yes,  I 
can!  I  do  love  your  dimple.  It  goes  in  and  out  like  the 
sun." 

Avery  leaned  back  abruptly  in  her  chair.  "Oh,  foolish 
one!"  she  said,  and  gathered  the  child  to  her  with  a  warmth 
to  which  the  ardent  Gracie  was  swift  to  respond. 

"And  you  are  coming  out  with  us,  aren't  you?  Because 
it's  so  lovely  and  cold.  I  want  to  go  up  on  that  big  hill  in 
Rodding  Park,  and  run  and  run  and  run  till  I  just  can't 


The  Race  51 

'run  any  longer.  Ronnie  and  Julian  are  coming  too.  And 
Jeanie  and  Olive  and  Pat.  We  ought  to  begin  and  collect 
holly  for  the  church  decorations.  You'll  be  able  to  help 
this  year,  won't  you?  Miss  Whalley  always  bosses  things. 
Have  you  met  Miss  Whalley  yet?  She's  quite  the  funniest 
person  in  Rodding.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  last  Vicar, 
and  she  has  never  forgotten  it.  So  odd  of  her!  As  if  there 
were  anything  in  it!  I  often  wish  I  weren't  a  parson's 
daughter.  I'd  much  rather  belong  to  someone  who  had  to 
go  up  to  town  every  day.  There  would  be  much  more  fun 
for  everybody  then." 

Avery  was  laying  her  mending  together.  She  supposed 
she  ought  to  check  the  child's  chatter,  but  felt  too  much  in 
sympathy  with  her  to  do  so.  "I  really  don't  know  if  I 
ought  to  come,"  she  said.  "But  it  is  certainly  too  fine  an 
afternoon  for  you  to  waste  indoors.  Where  are  the  boys? " 

"Oh,  they're  messing  about  somewhere  in  the  garden. 
You  see,  they've  got  to  keep  out  of  sight  or  Father  will  set 
them  to  work  to  roll  the  lawn.  He  always  does  that  sort 
of  thing.  He  calls  it  '  turning  our  youthful  energies  to  good 
account. ' '  Very  suddenly  and  wickedly  Gracie  mimicked 
the  pastoral  tones.  "But  the  boys  call  it  ' nigger-driving,"1 
she  added,  "and  I  think  the  boys  are  right.  When  I'm 
grown  up,  I'll  never,  never,  never  make  my  children  do 
horrid  things  like  that.  They  shall  have — oh,  such  a  good 
time!" 

There  was  unconscious  pathos  in  the  declaration.  Avery 
looked  at  the  bright  face  very  tenderly. 

"I  wonder  what  you'll  do  with  them  when  they're 
naughty,  Gracie,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  never  whip  them,"  said  Gracie  decidedly.  "1 
think  whipping  is  a  horrid  punishment.  It  makes  you  hate 
everybody.  I  think  I  shan't  punish  them  at  all,  Mrs. 
Denys.  I  shall  just  tell  them  how  wrong  they've  been, 
and  that  they  are  never  to  do  it  again.  And  I'm  sure  they 


52  The  Bars  of  Iron 

won't,"  she  added,  with  confidence.  "They'll  love  me 
too  much." 

She  slipped  her  arm  round  Avery's  waist  as  she  rose. 
"Do  you  know  I  would  dreadfully  like  to  call  you  Aunt 
A  very?"  she  said.  "I  said  so  to  Jeanie,  and  Jeanie  wants 
to  too.  Do  you  mind?" 

"  Mind ! "  said  A  very.     "  I  shall  love  it." 

"  Oh,  thank  you — awfully ! "  Gracie  kissed  her  fervently. 
"I'll  run  and  tell  Jeanie.  She  will  be  pleased." 

She  skipped  from  the  room,  and  Avery  went  to  prepare 
for  the  walk.  "  Poor  little  souls ! "  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"How  I  wish  they  were  mine!" 

They  mustered  only  five  when  they  started — the  three 
girls,  Pat,  and  Avery  herself;  but  ere  they  had  reached  the 
end  of  the  lane  the  two  elder  boys  leapt  the  Vicarage  wall 
with  a  whoop  of  triumph  and  joined  them.  The  party 
became  at  once  uproariously  gay.  Everyone  talked  at  the 
same  time,  even  Jeanie  becoming  animated.  Avery  re 
joiced  to  see  the  pretty  face  flushed  and  merry.  She  had 
begun  to  feel  twinges  of  anxiety  about  Jeanie  lately.  But 
she  was  able  to  banish  them  at  least  for  to-day,  for  Jeanie 
ran  and  chattered  with  the  rest.  In  fact,  Olive  was  the 
only  one  who  showed  any  disposition  to  walk  sedately- 
It  had  to  be  remembered  that  Olive  was  the  clever  one  of 
the  family.  She  more  closely  resembled  her  father  than 
any  of  the  others,  and  Avery  firmly  believed  her  to  be  the 
only  member  of  the  family  that  Mr.  Lorimer  really  loved. 
She  was  a  cold-hearted,  sarcastic  child,  extremely  self- 
contained,  giving  nothing  and  receiving  nothing  in  return. 
It  was  impossible  to  become  intimate  with  her.  Avery 
had  given  up  the  attempt  almost  at  the  outset,  realizing 
that  it  was  not  in  Olive's  nature  to  be  intimate  with  anyone. 
They  were  always  exceedingly  polite  to  each  other,  but 
beyond  that  their  acquaintance  made  no  progress.  Olive 
lived  in  a  world  of  books,  and  the  practical  side  of  life 


The  Race  53 

scarcely  touched  her,  and  most  certainly  never  appealed 
to  her  sympathy.  "She  will  be  her  father  over  again,'* 
Mrs.  Lorimer  would  declare,  with  pathetic  pride.  "So 
dignified,  so  handsome,  and  so  clever!" 

And  Avery  agreed,  not  without  reserve,  that  she  certainly 
resembled  him  to  a  marked  degree. 

She  was  by  far  the  most  sober  member  of  the  party  that 
entered  Rodding  Park  that  afternoon.  Avery,  inspired 
by  the  merriment  around  her,  was  in  a  frankly  frivolous 
mood.  She  was  fast  friends  with  the  two  elder  boys,  who 
had  voted  her  a  brick  on  the  night  that  she  had  intervened 
to  deliver  them  from  the  just  retribution  for  their  misdeeds. 
They  had  conceived  an  immense  admiration  for  her  which 
placed  her  in  a  highly  privileged  position. 

"If  Mrs.  Denys  says  so,  it  is  so,"  was  Ronald's  fiat,  and 
she  knew  that  such  influence  as  he  possessed  with  his 
brothers  and  sisters  was  always  at  her  disposal. 

She  liked  Ronald.  The  boy  was  a  gentleman.  Though 
slow,  he  was  solid ;  and  she  suspected  that  he  possessed  more 
depth  of  character  than  the  more  brilliant  Julian.  Julian 
was  crafty;  there  was  no  denying  it.  She  was  sure  that  he 
would  get  on  in  the  world.  But  of  Ronald's  future  she  was 
not  so  sure.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  might  plod  on  for 
ever  without  reaching  his  goal.  He  kept  near  her  through 
out  that  riotous  scamper  through  the  bare,  wind-swept 
Park,  making  it  plain  that  he  regarded  himself  as  her  lieu 
tenant  whether  she  required  his  services  or  not.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  did  not  require  them,  but  she  was  glad 
to  have  him  there  and  she  keenly  appreciated  the  gentle 
manly  consideration  with  which  he  helped  her  over  every 
stile. 

They  reached  the  high  hill  of  Gracie's  desire,  and  rapidly 
climbed  it.  The  sun  had  passed  over  to  the  far  west  and 
had  already  begun  to  dip  ere  they  reached  the  summit. 

"  Now  we'll  all  stand  in  a  row  and  race  down,"  announced 


54  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Grade,  when  they  reached  the  top.  "Aunt  Avery  will 
start  us.  We'll  run  as  far  as  that  big  oak-tree  on  the  edge 
of  the  wood.  Now  line  up,  everybody!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  so  silly,"  .said  Olive 
decidedly.  "Mrs.  Denys  and  I  will  follow  quietly." 

"Oh  no!"  laughed  Avery.  "You  can  do  the  starting, 
my  dear,  and  I  will  race  with  the  others." 

Olive  looked  at  her,  faintly  contemptuous.  "Oh,  of 
course  if  you  prefer  it — "  she  said. 

"I  do  indeed!"  Avery  assured  her.  "But  I  think  the 
two  big  boys  and  I  ought  to  be  handicapped.  Jeanie  and 
Gracie  and  Pat  must  go  ten  paces  in  front." 

"I  am  bigger  than  Gracie  and  Pat,"  said  Jeanie.  "I 
think  I  ought  to  go  midway." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Ronald.  "And,  Aunt  Avery,  you 
must  go  with  her.  You  can't  start  level  with  Julian  and 
me." 

Avery  laughed  at  the  amendment  and  fell  in  with  it. 
They  adjusted  themselves  for  the  trial  of  speed,  while  Olive 
stationed  herself  on  a  mole-hill  to  give  the  signal. 

The  valley  below  them  was  in  deep  shadow.  The  last 
of  the  sunlight  lay  upon  the  hilltop.  It  shone  dazzlingly 
in  Avery's  eyes  as  the  race  began. 

There  had  been  a  sprinkling  of  snow  the  day  before,  and 
the  grass  was  crisp  and  rough.  She  felt  it  crush  under  her 
feet  with  a  keen  sense  of  enjoyment.  Instinctively  she  put 
all  her  buoyant  strength  into  the  run.  She  left  Jeanie 
behind,  overtook  and  passed  the  two  younger  children, 
and  raced  like  a  hare  down  the  slope.  Keenly  the  wind 
whistled  past  her,  and  she  rejoiced  to  feel  its  clean  purity 
rush  into  her  lungs.  She  was  for  the  moment  absurdly, 
rapturously  happy, — a  child  amongst  children. 

The  sun  went  out  of  sight,  and  the  darkness  of  the  valle; 
swallowed  her.  She  sped  on,  fleet-footed,  flushed  and  laugh 
ing,  moving  as  if  on  wings. 


The  Race  55 

She  neared  the  dark  line  of  wood,  and  saw  the  stark, 
outstretched  branches  of  the  oak  that  was  her  goal.  In  the 
same  instant  she  caught  sight  of  a  man's  figure  standing 
beneath  it,  apparently  waiting  for  her. 

He  had  evidently  just  come  out  of  the  wood.  He  car 
ried  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  but  the  freedom  of  his  pose  was 
so  striking  that  she  likened  him  on  the  instant  to  a  Roman 
gladiator. 

She  could  not  stop  herself  at  once  though  she  checked 
her  speed,  and  when  she  finally  managed  to  come  to  a  stand, 
she  was  close  to  him. 

He  stepped  forward  to  meet  her  with  a  royal  air  of  wel 
come.  "How  nice  of  you  to  come  and  call  on  me!"  he 
said. 

His  dark  eyes  shone  mischievously  as  they  greeted  her, 
and  she  was  too  flushed  and  dishevelled  to  stand  upon 
ceremony.  Pantingly  she  threw  back  her  gay  reply. 

"This  is  the  children's  happy  hunting-ground,  not  mine, 
I  suppose,  if  the  truth  were  told,  we  are  trespassing." 

He  made  her  his  sweeping  bow.  "There  is  not  a  corner 
of  this  estate  that  is  not  utterly  and  for  ever  at  your 
service." 

He  turned  as  the  two  elder  boys  came  racing  up,  and  she 
saw  the  half-mocking  light  go  out  of  his  eyes  as  they  glanced 
up  the  hill.  "  Hullo !"  he  said.  "  There's  one  of  them  come 
to  grief." 

Sharply  she  turned  also.  Pat  and  Gracie  were  having  a 
spirited  race  down  the  lower  slope  of  the  hill.  Olive  had 
begun  to  descend  from  the  top  with  becoming  dignity. 
And  midway,  poor  Jeanie  crouched  in  a  forlorn  little  heap 
with  her  hands  tightly  covering  her  face. 

"The  child's  hurt!"  exclaimed  Avery. 

She  started  to  run  back,  but  in  a  moment  Piers  sprang 
past  her,  crying,  "All  right.  Don't  run!  Take  it  easy!" 

He  himself  went  like  the  wind.     She  watched  him  with 


56  The  Bars  of  Iron 

subconscious  admiration.  He  was  so  superbly  lithe  and 
strong. 

She  saw  him  reach  Jeanie  and  kneel  down  beside  her. 
There  was  no  hesitation  about  him.  He  was  evidently 
deeply  concerned.  He  slipped  a  persuasive  arm  about  the 
child's  huddled  form. 

When  Avery  reached  them,  Jeanie's  head  in  its  blue 
woollen  cap  was  pillowed  against  him  and  she  was  telling 
him  sobbingly  of  her  trouble. 

"I — I  caught  my  foot.  I  don't  know — how  I  did  it. 
It  twisted  right  round — and  oh,  it  does  hurt,  I — I — I  can't 
help — being  silly!" 

"All  right,  kiddie,  all  right!"  said  Piers.  "It  was  one  of 
those  confounded  rabbit-holes.  There!  You'll  be  better 
in  a  minute.  Got  a  handkerchief,  what?  Oh,  never  mind! 
Take  mine!" 

He  pulled  it  out  and  dried  her  eyes  as  tenderly  as  if  he 
had  been  a  woman ;  then  raised  his  head  abruptly  and  spoke 
to  Avery. 

"I  expect  it's  a  sprain.  I'd  better  get  her  boot  off  and 
see,  what?". 

"  No,  we  had  better  take  her  home  first,"  said  Avery  with 
quick  decision. 

"All  right,"  said  Piers  at  once.  "I'll  carry  her.  I  dare 
say  she  isn't  very  heavy.  I  say,  little  girl,  you  mustn't 
cry."  He  patted  her  shoulder  kindly.  "  It  hurts  horribly, 
I  know.  These  things  always  do.  But  you're  going  to 
show  me  how  plucky  you  can  be.  Women  are  always 
braver  than  men,  aren't  they,  Mrs.  Denys?" 

Thus  admonished,  Jeanie  lifted  her  face  and  made  a 
valiant  effort  to  regain  her  self-command.  But  she  clasped 
her  two  hands  very  tightly  upon  Piers'  arm  so  that  he  could 
not  move  to  lift  her. 

"I'll  be  brave  in  a  minute,"  she  promised  him  tremulously. 
"You  won't  mind  waiting — just  a  minute?" 


The  Race  57 

"Two,  if  you  like,"  said  Piers. 

Avery  was  stooping  over  the  injured  foot.  Jeanie  was 
propped  sideways,  half-lying  against  Piers'  knee. 

"Don't  touch  it,  please,  Aunt  Avery!"  she  whispered. 

The  other  children  had  drawn  round  in  an  interested 
group.  "It  looks  like  a  fracture  to  me,"  observed  Olive 
in  her  precise  voice. 

Piers  flashed  her  a  withering  glance.  "Mighty  lot  you 
know  about  it!"  he  retorted  rudely. 

Pat  sniggered.  He  was  not  fond  of  his  second  sister. 
But  his  mirth  was  checked  by  the  impulsive  Gracie  who 
pushed  him  aside  with  a  brief,  "Don't  be  a  pig!" 

Olive  retired  into  the  background  with  her  nose  in  the 
air,  looking  so  absurdly  like  her  father  that  a  gleam  of 
humour  shot  through  even  Piers'  sternness.  He  suppressed 
it  and  turned  to  the  two  elder  boys. 

"Which  of  you  is  to  be  trusted  to  carry  a  loaded  gun?" 

"I  am,"  said  Julian. 

"No — Ronald,"  said  Avery  very  firmly. 

Julian  stuck  out  his  tongue  at  her,  and  was  instantly 
pummelled  therefor  by  the  zealous  Gracie. 

"Ronald,"  said  Piers.  "Mind  how  you  pick  it  up,  and 
don't  point  it  at  anyone !  Carry  it  on  your  shoulder !  That's 
the  way.  Go  slow  with  it !  Now  you  walk  in  front  and 
take  it  down  to  the  lodge ! ' ' 

He  issued  his  orders  with  the  air  of  a  commanding-officer, 
and  having  issued  them  turned  again  with  renewed  gentle 
ness  to  the  child  who  lay  against  his  arm. 

"Now,  little  girl,  shall  we  make  a  move?  I'm  afraid 
postponing  it  won't  make  it  any  better.  I'll  carry  you 
awfully  carefully." 

"Thank  you,"  whispered  Jeanie. 

He  stooped  over  her.  "Put  your  arm  round  my  neck! 
That'll  be  a  help.  Mrs.  Denys,  can  you  steady  her  foot 
while  I  get  up?" 


58  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery  bent  to  do  so.  He  moved  with  infinite  care;  but 
even  so  the  strain  upon  the  foot  was  inevitable.  Jeanie 
gave  a  sharp  cry,  and  sank  helpless  in  his  arms. 

He  began  to  speak  encouragingly  but  broke  off  in  the 
middle,  feeling  the  child's  head  lie  limp  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Afraid  it's  serious,"  he  said  to  Avery.  "We  will  get 
her  down  to  the  lodge  and  send  for  a  doctor." 

"By  Jove!  She's  fainted!"  remarked  Julian.  "It's  a 
jolly  bad  sprain." 

"It's  not  a  sprain  at  all,"  said  Olive  loftily. 

And  much  as  she  would  have  liked  to  disagree,  Avery 
knew  that  she  was  right. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  5RIEND   IN   NEED 

MRS.  MARSHALL  at  the  lodge  was  a  hard-featured 
old  woman  whose  god  was  cleanliness.  Perhaps 
it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  of  her  that  she  should  throw 
open  her  door  to  the  whole  party.  Piers,  with  his  limp 
burden,  and  Avery  she  had  to  admit,  but  after  the  latter's 
entrance  she  sternly  blocked  the  way. 

"There's  no  room  for  any  more,"  she  declared  with 
finality.  "You'd  best  run  along  home." 

And  with  that  she  shut  the  door  upon  them  and  followed 
her  unwelcome  visitors  into  her  spotless  parlour. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  young  lady?"  she  enquired 
sourly. 

Avery  answered  her  in  her  quick,  friendly  way.  "She 
has  had  a  fall,  poor  little  thing,  and  hurt  her  foot — I'm 
afraid,  badly.  It's  so  good  of  you  to  let  us  bring  her  in 
here.  Won't  you  spread  a  cloth  to  keep  her  boots  off  youi 
clean  chintz?" 

The  suggestion  was  what  Piers  described  later  as  "a 
lucky  hit."  It  melted  old  Mrs.  Marshall  on  the  instant. 
She  hastened  to  comply  with  it,  and  saw  Jeanie  laid  down 
upon  her  sofa  with  comparative  resignation. 

"She  do  look  mortal  bad,  to  be  sure,"  she  remarked. 

"Can't  you  find  some  brandy?"  said  Piers. 

"I  think  she  will  come  to,  now,"  Avery  said.  "Yes, 
look!  Her  eyes  are  opening." 

59 


60  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  was  right.  Jeanie's  eyes  opened  very  wide  and  fixed 
themselves  enquiringly  upon  Piers'  face.  There  was  some 
thing  in  them,  a  species  of  dumb  appeal,  that  went  straight 
to  his  heart.  He  moved  impulsively,  and  knelt  beside  her. 

Jeanie's  hand  came  confidingly  forth  to  him.  "I  did 
try  to  be  brave,"  she  whispered. 

Piers'  fyand  closed  instantly  and  warmly  upon  hers. 
" That's  all  right,  little  girl,"  he  said  kindly.  "Pain 
pretty  bad,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Jeanie. 

"Ah,  well,  don't  move!"  he  said.  "We'll  get  your  boot 
off  and  then  you'll  feel  better." 

"Oh,  don't  trouble,  please!"  said  Jeanie  politely. 

She  held  his  hand  very  tightly,  and  he  divined  that  the 
prospect  of  the  boot's  removal  caused  her  considerable 
apprehension. 

He  looked  round  to  consult  Avery  on  the  subject,  but 
found  that  she  had  slipped  out  of  the  room.  He  heard  her 
in  the  porch  speaking  to  the  children,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
she  was  back  again. 

"Don't  let  us  keep  you! "  she  said  to  Piers.  "I  can  stay 
with  Jeanie  now.  I  have  sent  the  children  home,  all  but 
Ronald  and  Julian  who  have  gone  to  fetch  Dr.  Tudor." 

Piers  looked  at  Jeanie,  and  Jeanie  looked  at  Piers.  Her 
hand  was  still  fast  locked  in  his. 

"Shall  I  go?"  said  Piers. 

Jeanie's  blue  eyes  were  very  wistful.  "I  would  like  you 
to  stay,"  she  said  shyly,  "if  you  don't  mind." 

"If  Mrs.  Denys  doesn't  mind?"  suggested  Piers. 

To  which  Avery  responded.    "Thank  you.    Please  stay!" 

She  said  it  for  Jeanie's  sake,  since  it  was  evident  that  the 
child  was  sustaining  herself  on  the  man's  strength,  but 
the  look  Piers  flashed  her  made  her  a  little  doubtful  as  to 
the  wisdom  of  her  action.  She  realized  that  it  might  not 
be  easy  to  keep  him  at  arm's  length  after  this. 


A  Friend  in  Need  61 

Piers  turned  back  to  Jeanie.  "Very  well,  I'll  stay,"  he 
<said,  "anyhow  till  Tudor  comes  along.  Let's  see!  You're 
the  eldest  girl,  aren't  you?  I  ought  to  know  you  by  name, 
but  somehow  my  memory  won't  run  to  it." 

He  could  not  as  a  matter  of  fact  remember  that  he  had 
ever  spoken  to  any  of  the  young  Lorimers  before,  though 
by  sight  he  was  well  acquainted  with  them. 

Jeanie,  in  whose  eyes  he  had  ever  shone  as  a  knight  of 
romance,  murmured  courteously  that  no  one  ever  remem 
bered  them  all  by  name. 

"Well,  I  shall  remember  you  anyhow,"  said  Piers. 
"Queenie  is  it?" 

"No— Jeanie." 

"I  shall  call  you  Queenie,"  he  said.  "It  sounds  more 
imposing.  Now  won't  you  let  me  just  slit  off  that  boot? 
I  can  do  it  without  hurting  you." 

"Slit  it!"  said  Jeanie,  shocked. 

"We  shan't  get  it  off  without,"  said  Piers.  "What  do 
you  think  about  it,  Mrs.  Denys?" 

"I  will  unfasten  the  lace  first,"  Avery  said. 

This  she  proceeded  to  do  while  Piers  occupied  Jeanie's 
attention  with  a  success  which  a  less  dominant  personality 
could  scarcely  have  achieved. 

But  when  it  came  to  removing  the  boot  he  went  to 
Avery's  assistance.  It  was  no  easy  matter  but  they 
accomplished  it  between  them,  Piers  ruthlessly  cutting 
the  leather  away  from  the  injured  ankle  which  by  that 
time  was  badly  swollen.  They  propped  it  on  a  cushion, 
and  made  her  as  comfortable  as  circumstances  would 
allow. 

"Can't  that  old  woman  make  you  some  tea?"  Piers 
said  then,  beginning  to  chafe  at  the  prospect  of  an 
indefinite  period  of  inaction. 

"I  think  she  is  boiling  her  kettle  now,"  Avery  answered. 

Piers  grunted.     He  fidgeted  to  the  window  and  back,  and 


62  The  Bars  of  Iron 

then,  finding  Jeanie's  eyes  still  mutely  watching  him,  he 
pulled  up  a  chair  to  her  side  and  took  the  slender  hand 
again  into  his  own. 

Avery  turned  her  attention  to  coaxing  the  fire  to  burn, 
and  presently  went  out  to  Mrs.  Marshall  in  her  kitchen  to 
offer  her  services  there.  She  was  graciously  permitted  to 
cut  some  bread  and  butter  while  the  old  woman  prepared 
a  tray. 

"I  suppose  it  was  Master  Piers'  fault,"  the  latter  re 
marked  with  severity.  "He's  always  up  to  some  mischief 
or  other." 

Avery  hastened  to  assure  her  that  upon  this  occasion 
Piers  was  absolutely  blameless  and  had  been  of  the  utmost 
assistance  to  them. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall.  "He's 
a  feckless  young  gentleman,  and  I  often  think  as  he's  like 
to  bring  the  old  master's  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
Sir  Beverley  do  set  such  store  by  him,  always  did  from  the 
day  he  brought  him  back  from  his  dead  mother  in  Paris, 
along  with  that  French  valet  who  carried  him  like  as  if  he'd 
been  a  parcel  of  goods.  He's  been  brought  up  by  men  from 
his  cradle,  miss,  and  it  hasn't  done  him  any  good.  But 
there!  Sir  Beverley  is  that  set  against  all  womenkind 
there's  no  moving  him." 

Mrs.  Marshall  was  beginning  to  expand — a  mark  of  high 
favour  which  she  bestowed  only  upon  the  few. 

Avery  listened  with  respect,  comfortably  aware  that  by 
this  simple  means  she  was  creating  a  good  impression. 
She  was  anxious  to  win  the  old  dame  to  a  benevolent  frame 
of  mind  if  possible,  since  to  be  thrown  upon  unwilling 
hospitality  was  the  last  thing  she  desired. 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  achieved  her  purpose. 
When  she  returned  to  the  parlour  in  Mrs.  Marshall's  wake, 
she  had  completely  won  her  hostess's  heart,  a  fact  which 
Piers  remarked  on  the  instant. 


A  Friend  in  Need  63 

"There's  magic  in  you,"  he  said  to  Avery,  as  she  gave 
him  his  cup  of  tea. 

"I  prefer  to  call  it  commonsense,"  she  answered. 

She  turned  her  attention  at  once  to  Jeanie,  coaxing  her 
to  drink  the  tea  though  her  utmost  persuasion  could  not 
induce  her  to  eat  anything.  She  was  evidently  suffering 
a  good  deal  of  pain,  but  she  begged  them  not  to  trouble 
about  her.  "Please  have  your  tea,  Aunt  Avery!  I  shall 
be  quite  all  right." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Avery  must  certainly  have  some  tea,"  said 
Piers  with  determination,  and  he  refused  to  touch  his  own 
until  she  had  done  so. 

It  was  a  relief  to  ali  three  of  them  when  the  doctor's  dog 
cart  was  heard  on  the  drive.  Avery  rose  at  once  and  went 
to  receive  him. 

Piers  stretched  a  kindly  arm  behind  the  cushion  that 
supported  Jeanie's  head.  "Do  you  really  want  me  to 
stay  with  you,  little  girl?"  he  asked. 

Jeanie  was  very  white,  but  she  looked  at  him  bravely. 
"Do  you  mind?"  she  said. 

His  dark  eyes  smiled  encouragement.  "No,  of  course 
I  don't  mind  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you.  Tudor  will 
probably  want  to  kick  me  out,  but  if  you  have  the  smallest 
desire  to  keep  me,  I'll  stay." 

"You  are  kind,"  said  Jeanie  very  earnestly.  "I  think 
it  will  help  me  to  be  brave  if  I  may  hold  your  hand.  You 
have  such  a  strong  hand." 

"It  is  entirely  at  your  service,"  said  Piers. 

He  turned  in  his  chair  at  the  doctor's  entrance,  without 
rising.  His  attitude  was  decidedly  dogged.  He  looked 
as  if  he  anticipated  a  struggle. 

Dr.  Tudor  came  in  behind  Avery.  He  was  a  man  of 
forty,  curt  of  speech  and  short  of  temper,  with  eyes  that 
gleamed  shrewdly  behind  gold  pince-nez.  He  gave  Piers 
a  look  that  was  conspicuously  lacking  in  cordiality. 


64  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Hullo!"  he  said.     "You  here!" 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  said  Piers. 

The  doctor's  eyes  passed  him  and  went  straight  to  the 
white  face  of  the  child  on  the  sofa.  He  advanced  and  bent 
over  her. 

"So  you've  had  an  accident,  eh?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Jeanie,  pressing  a  little  closer  to  Piers. 

"What  happened?" 

"I  think  it  was  a  rabbit-hole,"  said  Jeanie  not  very 
lucidly. 

"Caught  your  foot  and  fell,  I  suppose?"  said  the  doctor. 
"Was  that  all?  Did  you  do  any  walking  after  it?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Jeanie,  with  a  shudder.  "Mr.  Evesham 
carried  me." 

"I  see."  He  was  holding  her  wrist  between  his  fingers. 
Very  suddenly  he  looked  at  Piers  again.  "I  can't  have 
you  here,"  he  said. 

"Can't  you?"  said  Piers.  He  threw  back  his  head  with 
an  aggressive  movement,  but  said  no  more. 

"Please  let  him  stay!"  said  Jeanie  beseechingly. 

The  doctor  frowned. 

In  a  low  voice  Avery  intervened.  "  I  told  him  he  might 
— for  the  child's  sake." 

Dr.  Tudor  turned  his  hawk  eyes  upon  her.  "Who  are 
you,  may  I  ask?" 

Piers'  free  hand  clenched,  and  a  sudden  hot  flush  rose  to 
his  forehead.  But  Avery  made  answer  before  he  could 
speak. 

"I  am  the  mother's  help  at  the  Vicarage.  My  name  is 
Denys — Mrs.  Denys.  And  Jeanie  is  in  my  care.  Now, 
will  you  look  at  the  injury?" 

She  smiled  a  little  as  she  said  it,  but  the  decision  of 
her  speech  was  past  disputing.  Dr.  Tudor  regarded  her 
piercingly  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  without  a  word 
turned  aside. 


A  Friend  in  Need  65 

The  tension  went  out  of -Piers'  attitude;  he  held  Jeanie 
comfortingly  close. 

At  the  end  of  a  brief  examination  the  doctor  spoke.  "Yes. 
A  simple  fracture.  I  can  soon  put  that  to  rights.  You 
can  help  me,  Mrs.  Denys." 

He  went  to  work  at  once,  giving  occasional  curt  direc 
tions  to  Avery,  while  Jeanie  clung  convulsively  to  Piers, 
her  face  buried  in  his  coat,  and  fought  for  self-control. 

It  was  a  very  plucky  fight,  for  the  ordeal  was  a  severe 
one;  and  when  it  was  over  the  poor  child  broke  down  com 
pletely  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  and  wept  upon  Piers' 
shoulder.  He  soothed  and  consoled  her  with  the  utmost 
kindness.  It  had  been  something  of  an  ordeal  for  him 
also,  and  with  relief  he  turned  his  attention  to  comforting 
her. 

She  soon  grew  calmer  and  apologized  humbly  for  her 
weakness.  "I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne  it  without 
you,"  she  told  him,  with  tremulous  sincerity.  "But  I'm 
so  dreadfully  sorry  to  have  given  you  all  this  trouble." 

"That's  all  right,"  Piers  assured  her.  "I'm  glad  you 
found  me  of  use." 

He  dried  her  tears  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon, 
and  then,  with  a  somewhat  obvious  effort  at  civility, 
addressed  the  doctor. 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right  to  move  her  now?  Can 
we  take  her  home  in  the  landaulette?" 

Curtly  the  doctor  made  answer.  "Very  well  indeed,  I 
should  say,  if  we  lift  her  carefully  and  keep  the  foot  straight. 
I'll  drive  you  to  the  Abbey  if  you  like.  I'm  going  up  to 
see  your  grandfather." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should,"  said  Piers  quickly. 
"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  him." 

Dr.  Tudor  made  no  reply.     ' '  Are  you  coming  ? "  he  asked. 

"No,  thanks."  There  was  latent  triumph  in  Piers' 
response.  "  If  you.  are  going  up,  you  can  give  the  order  for 


66 


the  landaulette,  and  tell  my  grandfather  I  am  staying  to 
see  Miss  Lorimer  safely  home." 

Dr.  Tudor  grunted  and  turned  away,  frowning. 

"Well,  so  long!"  he  said  to  Jeanie.  "I'll  look  in  on  my 
way  back,  and  lend  a  hand  with  moving  you.  But  you 
will  be  all  right  now  if  you  do  as  you're  told." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jeanie  meekly. 

He  went  out  with  Avery,  and  the  door  closed  behind  them. 

Jeanie  stole  a  glance  at  Piers  who  was  looking  decidedly 
grim. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  answer.  " I  detest  him,  and  he  knows 
it." 

Jeanie  looked  a  little  startled.     "Oh,  do  you?"  she  said. 

"Don't  you?"  said  Piers. 

"I — I  really  don't  know.  Isn't  it — isn't  it  wrong  to 
detest  anyone!"  faltered  Jeanie. 

"Wrong!"  said  Piers.  He  frowned  momentarily,  then 
as  suddenly  he  smiled.  He  bent  very  abruptly  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead.  "Yes,  of  course  it's  wrong,"  he  said, 
"for  the  people  who  keep  consciences." 

"Oh,  but — "Jeanie  remonstrated,  and  then  something 
in  his  face  stopped  her.  She  flushed  and  murmured  in 
confusion,  "Thank  you  for! — for  kissing  me!" 

"Don't  mention  it!"  said  Piers,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  should  like  to  kiss  you  if  I  may,"  said  Jeanie.  "You 
have  been  so  very  kind." 

He  bent  his  face  to  hers  and  received  the  kiss.  "You're 
a  nice  little  girl,"  he  said,  and  there  was  an  odd  note  of 
feeling  in  the  words  for  all  their  lightness  that  made  Jeanie 
aware  that  in  some  fashion  he  was  moved. 

"I  don't  think  he  is  quite — quite  happy,  do  you?"  she 
said  to  Avery  that  night  when  the  worst  of  her  troubles 
were  over,  and  she  was  safely  back  at  the  Vicarage. 

And  Avery  answered  thoughtfully,  "Perhaps — not 
quite." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   TALK   BY   THE   FIRE 

Reverend  Stephen  Lorimer  was  writing  his  sermon 
1  for  the  last  Sunday  in  Advent.  His  theme  was  eter 
nal  punishment  and  one  which  he  considered  worthy  of  his 
utmost  eloquence.  There  was  nothing  mythical  or  alle 
gorical  in  that  subject  in  the  opinion  of  the  Reverend 
Stephen.  He  believed  in  it  most  firmly,  and  the  belief 
afforded  him  the  keenest  satisfaction.  It  was  a  nerve- 
shaking  sermon.  Had  it  been  of  a  secular  nature,  it  might 
almost  have  been  described  as  inhuman,  so  obviously  was 
it  designed  to  render  his  hearers  afraid  to  go  home  in  the 
dark.  But  since  it  was  not  secular,  it  took  the  form  of  a 
fine  piece  of  inspiration  which,  from  Mr.  Lorimer's  point 
of  view  at  least,  could  scarcely  fail  to  make  the  most  stub 
born  heart  in  his  congregation  tremble.  He  pictured  him 
self  delivering  his  splendid  rhetoric  with  a  grand  and  noble 
severity  as  impressive  as  the  words  he  had  to  utter,  reading 
appreciation — possibly  unwilling  appreciation — and  dawn 
ing  uneasiness  on  the  upturned  faces  of  his  listeners. 

Mr.  Lorimer  did  not  love  his  flock;  his  religion  did  not 
take  that  form.  And  the  flock  very  naturally  as  a  whole 
had  scant  affection  for  Mr.  Lorimer.  The  flock  knew,  or 
shrewdly  suspected,  that  his  eloquence  was  mere  sound — 
not  always  even  musical — and  as  a  consequence  its  power 
was  somewhat  thrown  away.  His  command  of  words  was 
practically  limitless,  but  words  could  not  carry  him  to  the 

6? 


68  The  Bars  of  Iron 

hearts  of  his  congregation,  and  he  had  no  other  means  at 
his  disposal.  For  this  of  course  he  blamed  the  congrega 
tion,  which  certainly  had  no  right  to  wink  and  snigger 
when  he  passed. 

This  Advent  sermon  however  was  a  masterpiece,  and 
as  Mr.  Lorimer  lovingly  fingered  the  pages  of  his  manuscript 
he  told  himself  that  it  could  not  fail  to  make  an  impression 
upon  the  most  hardened  sinner. 

A  low  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  these  pleasant  thoughts 
and  he  frowned.  There  was  an  unwritten  law  at  the  Vicar 
age  that  save  for  the  most  urgent  of  reasons  he  should  never 
be  interrupted  at  this  hour. 

Softly  the  door  opened.     Humbly  his  wife  peeped  in. 

"Are  you  very  busy,  Stephen?" 

His  frown  melted  away.  Here  at  least  was  one  whose 
appreciation  was  never  lacking.  "Well,  my  dear  Adelaide, 
I  think  I  may  truthfully  say  that  the  stress  of  my  business 
is  fairly  over.  You  may  come  in." 

She  crept  in,  mouse-like,  and  a  distant  burst  of  music 
wafted  in  with  her,  causing  her  to  turn  and  quickly  close 
the  door. 

"Have  you  finished  your  sermon,  dear?  Can  we  have 
a  little  talk?"  she  asked  him  nervously. 

He  stretched  out  a  large  white  hand  to  her  without  rising. 
"Yes.  I  do  not  think  much  remains  to  be  said.  We  have 
as  it  were  regarded  the  matter  from  every  point  of  view. 
I  do  not  think  there  will  be  many  consciences  unaroused 
when  I  have  enunciated  my  final  warning." 

"You  have  such  a  striking  delivery,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Lorimer,  clasping  the  firm  white  hand  between  both  her 
own. 

Mr.  Lorimer's  eyes  vanished  in  an  unctuous  smile. 
"Thou  idle  flatterer!"  he  said. 

"No,  indeed,  dear,"  his  wife  protested.  "I  think  you 
are  always  impressive,  especially  at  the  end  of  your  ser- 


A  Talk  by  the  Fire  69 

mons.  That  pause  you  make  before  you  turn  your  face 
to  the  altar — it  seems  to  me  so  effective — so,  if  one  may 
say  it,  dramatic." 

"To  what  request  is  this  the  prelude?"  enquired  Mr. 
Lorimer,  emerging  from  his  smile. 

She  laughed  a  little  nervous  laugh.  Her  thin  face  was 
flushed.  "Shall  we  sit  by  the  fire,  Stephen,  as  we  used  to 
that  first  happy  winter — do  you  remember? — after  we  were 
married?" 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  Lorimer.  "This  sounds  like  a 
plunge  into  sentiment." 

Nevertheless  he  rose  with  a  tolerant  twinkle  and  seated 
himself  in  the  large  easy-chair  before  the  fire.  It  was  the 
only  really  comfortable  chair  in  the  room.  He  kept  it  for 
his  moments  of  reflection. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  sat  down  at  his  feet  on  the  fender-curb,  her 
tiny  hand  still  clinging  to  his.  "This  is  a  real  treat,"  she 
said,  laying  her  head  against  his  knee  with  a  gesture  oddly 
girlish.  "It  isn't  often,  is  it,  that  we  have  it  all  to 
ourselves?" 

"What  is  it  you  have  to  say  to  me?"  he  enquired. 

She  drew  his  hand  down  gently  over  her  shoulder,  and 
held  it  against  her  cheek.  There  fell  a  brief  silence,  then 
she  said  with  a  slight  effort:  "Your  idea  of  a  mother's  help 
has  worked  wonderfully,  Stephen.  As  you  know,  I  was 
averse  to  it  at  first  but  I  am  so  glad  you  insisted.  Dear 
Avery  is  a  greater  comfort  to  me  than  I  can  possibly  tell 
you." 

"Avery!"  repeated  the  Reverend  Stephen,  with  brows 
elevated.  "I  presume  you  are  talking  of  Mrs.  Denys?" 

"Yes,  dear.  I  call  her  Avery.  I  feel  her  to  be  almost 
one  of  ourselves."  There  was  just  a  hint  of  apology  in 
Mrs.  Lorimer's  voice.  "She  has  been — and  is — so  very 
kind  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  really  don't  know  what  the 
children  and  I  would  do  without  her." 


7o  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  she  is  kind,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  with  a 
touch  of  acidity. 

"My  dearest,  she  is  quite  our  equal  in  position/'' 
murmured  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

"That  may  be,  my  dear  Adelaide."  The  acidity  de 
veloped  into  a  note  of  displeasure.  "In  a  sense  doubtless 
we  are  all  equal.  But  in  spite  of  that,  extremes  of  intimacy 
are  often  inadvisable.  I  do  not  think  you  are  altogether 
discreet  in  making  a  bosom  friend  of  a  woman  in  Mrs. 
Denys's  position.  A  very  good  woman,  I  grant  you.  But 
familiarity  with  her  is  altogether  unsuitable.  From  my 
own  experience  of  her  I  am  convinced  that  she  would  very 
soon  presume  upon  it." 

He  paused.  Mrs.  Lorimer  said  nothing.  She  was  sitting 
motionless  with  her  soft  eyes  on  the  fire. 

Mr.  Lorimer  looked  down  at  the  brown  head  at  his  knee 
with  growing  severity.  "You  will,  therefore,  Adelaide, 
in  deference  to  my  wish — if  for  no  other  reason — discon 
tinue  this  use  of  Mrs.  Denys's  Christian  name." 

Mrs.  Lorimer's  lips  moved,  but  they  said  nothing. 

"Adelaide!"  He  spoke  with  cold  surprise. 

Instantly  her  fingers  tightened  upon  his  with  a  grip  that 
was  almost  passionate.  She  raised  her  head,  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  earnest,  pleading  eyes.  "I  am  sorry, 
Stephen — dear  Stephen — but  I  have  already  given  my 
friendship  to — to  Mrs.  Denys.  She  has  been — she  is — 
like  a  sister  to  me.  So  you  see,  I  can't  possibly  take  it 
away  again.  You  would  not  wish  it  if  you  knew." 

"If  I  knew!"  repeated  Mr.  Lorimer,  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

She  turned  her  face  from  him  again,  but  he  leaned  slowly 
forward  in  his  chair  and  taking  her  chin  between  his  finger 
and  thumb  turned  it  deliberately  back  again. 

She  shrank  a  little,  but  she  did  not  resist  him.  He  looked 
searchingly  into  her  eyes.  The  lids  flickered  •  nervously 
under  his  gaze,  but  he  did  not  relax  his  scrutiny. 


A  Talk  by  the  Fire  71 

"Well?  "he  said. 

Her  lips  quivered.     She  said  nothing. 

But  her  silence  was  enough.  He  released  her  abruptly 
and  dropped  back  in  his  chair  without  another  word. 

She  sank  down  trembling  against  his  knee,  and  there  fol 
lowed  a  most  painful  pause.  Through  the  stillness  there 
crept  again  the  faint  strains  of  distant  music.  Someone  was 
playing  the  Soldiers'  March  out  of  Faust  on  the  old  cracked 
schoolroom  piano,  which  was  rising  nobly  to  the  occasion. 

Mr.  Lorimer  moved  at  length  and  turned  his  head. 
"Who  is  that  playing?" 

"Piers  Evesham,"  whispered  Mrs.  Lorimer.  She  was 
weeping  softly  and  dared  not  stir  lest  he  should  discover 
the  fact.  • 

There  was  a  deep,  vertical  line  between  Mr.  Lorimer's 
brows.  "And  what  may  Piers  Evesham  be  doing  here?" 
he  enquired. 

"He  comes  often — to  see  Jeanie,"  murmured  his  wife 
deprecatingly. 

He  laughed  unpleasantly.     "A  vast  honour  for  Jeanie!" 

Two  tears  fell  from  Mrs.  Lorimer's  eyes.  She  began  to 
feel  furtively  for  her  handkerchief. 

"And  Dr.  Lennox  Tudor," — he  pronounced  the  name 
with  elaborate  care, — "he  comes — often — for  the  same 
reason,  I  presume?" 

"He — he  came  to  see.  me  yesterday,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Lorimer. 

"Indeed!"  The  word  was  as  water  dropped  from  an 
icicle. 

She  dabbed  her  eyes  and  bravely  turned  and  faced  him. 
"Stephen  dear,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  didn't  want  to  vex  you 
unnecessarily.  I  hoped  against  hope —  She  broke  off, 
and  knelt  up  before  him,  clasping  his  hand  tightly  against 
her  breast.  "Stephen — dearest,  you  said — when  our  first 
born  came — that  he  was — God's  gift." 


72  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Well?"  Again  that  one,  uncompromising  word.  The 
vertical  line  deepened  between  her  husband's  brows.  His 
eyes  looked  coldly  back  at  her. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  caught  her  breath  on  a  little  sob.  "Will 
not  this  little  one — be  just  as  much  so?"  she  whispered. 

He  began  to  draw  his  hand  away  from  her.  "My  dear 
Adelaide,  we  will  not  be  foolishly  sentimental.  What 
must  be,  must.  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  run  away 
now  as  I  have  yet  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  my  ser 
mon.  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  request  young  Evesham  on 
my  behalf  to  make  a  little  less  noise." 

He  deliberately  put  her  from  him,  and  prepared  to  rise. 
But  Mrs.  Lorimer  suddenly  and  very  unexpectedly  rose 
first.  She  stood  before  him,  slightly  bending,  her  hands  on 
his  broad  shoulders. 

"Will  you  kiss  me,  Stephen?"  she  said. 

He  lifted  a  grim,  reluctant  face.  She  stooped,  slipping 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  "My  own  dear  husband!"  she 
whispered. 

He  endured  her  embrace  for  a  couple  of  seconds;  then, 
"That  will  do,  Adelaide,"  he  said  with  decision.  "You 
must  not  let  yourself  get  emotional.  Dear  me!  It  i§ 
getting  late.  I  am  afraid  I  really  must  ask  you  to  leave 
me." 

Her  arms  fell.  She  drew  back,  dispirited.  "Forgive 
me, — oh,  forgive  me!"  she  murmured  miserably. 

He  turned  back  to  his  writing-table,  still  frowning.  "I 
was  not  aware  that  I  had  anything  to  forgive,"  he  said. 
"But  if  you  think  so, —  '  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
beginning  already  to  turn  the  pages  of  his  masterpiece — - 
"my  forgiveness  is  yours.  I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to 
divert  your  thoughts  from  what  I  am  sure  you  will  admit 
to  be  a  purely  selfish  channel  by  listening  to  a  portion  of 
this  Advent  sermon." 

"What  is  it  about?"  asked  Mrs.  Lorimer,  hesitating. 


A  Talk  by  the  Fire  73 

"My  theme,"  said  the  Reverend  Stephen,  "is  the  awful 
doom  that  awaits  the  unrepentant  sinner." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Lorimer 
did  an  extraordinary  thing.  She  turned  from  him  and 
walked  to  the  door. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Stephen,"  she  said,  and  she 
spoke  with  decision  albeit  her  voice  was  not  wholly  steady. 
"But  I  don't  feel  that  that  kind  of  diversion  would  do  me 
much  good.  I  think  I  shall  run  up  to  the  nursery  and  see 
Baby  Phil  have  his  bath." 

She  was  gone;  but  so  noiselessly  that  Mr.  Lorimer, 
turning  in  his  chair  to  rebuke  her  frivolity,  found  himself 
addressing  the  closed  door. 

He  turned  back  again  with  a  heavy  sigh.  There  seemed 
to  be  some  disturbing  element  at  work.  Time  had  been 
when  she  had  deemed  it  her  dearest  privilege  to  sit  and 
listen  to  his  sermons.  He  could  not  understand  her  refusal 
of  an  offer  that  ought  to  have  delighted  her.  He  hoped 
that  her  heart  was  not  becoming  hardened. 

Could  he  have  seen  her  ascending  the  stairs  at  that 
moment  with  the  tears  running  down  her  face,  he  might 
have  realized  that  that  fear  at  least  was  groundless. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TICKET  OF  LEAVE 

OEATED  at  the  schoolroom  piano,  Piers  was  thoroughly 
O  in  his  element.  He  had  a  marvellous  gift  for  making 
music,  and  his  audience  listened  spell-bound.  His  own 
love  for  it  amounted  to  a  passion,  inherited,  so  it  was  said, 
from  his  Italian  grandmother.  He  threw  his  whole  soul  into 
the  instrument  under  his  hands,  and  played  as  one  inspired. 

Jeanie,  from  her  sofa,  drank  in  the  music  with  shining 
eyes.  She  had  never  heard  anything  to  compare  with  it 
before,  and  it  stirred  her  to  the  depths. 

It  stirred  Avery  also,  but  in  a  different  way.  The 
personality  of  the  player  forced  itself  upon  her  with  a 
curious  insistence,  and  she  had  an  odd  feeling  that  he  did 
it  by  deliberate  intention.  Every  chord  he  struck  seemed 
to  speak  to  her  directly,  compelling  her  attention,  domi 
nating  her  will.  He  was  playing  to  her  alone,  and,  though 
she  chose  to  ignore  the  fact,  she  was  none  the  less  aware 
of  it.  By  his  music  he  enthralled  her,  making  her  see  the 
things  he  saw,  making  her  feel  the  fiery  unrest  that  throbbed 
in  every  beat  of  his  heart. 

Gracie,  standing  beside  him,  watching  with  fascinated 
eyes  the  strong  hands  that  charmed  from  the  old  piano 
such  music  as  probably  it  had  never  before  uttered,  was 
enthralled  also,  but  only  in  a  superficial  sense.  She  was 
keenly  interested  in  the  play  of  his  fingers,  which  seemed 
to  her  quite  wonderful,  as  indeed  it  was. 

He  took  no  more  notice  of  her  admiring  gaze  than  if  she 

74 


The  Ticket  of  Leave  75 

had  been  a  fly,  pouring  out  his  magic  flood  of  music  with 
eyes  fixed  straight  before  him  and  lips  that  were  sometimes 
hard  and  sometimes  tender.  He  might  have  been  a  man 
in  a  trance. 

And  then  very  suddenly  the  spell  was  broken.  For  no 
apparent  reason,  he  fell  headlong  from  his  heights  and 
burst  into  a  merry  little  jig  that  set  Gracie  dancing  like 
an  elf. 

He  became  aware  of  her  then,  threw  her  a  laugh,  quick 
ened  to  a  mad  tarantella  that  nearly  whirled  her  off  her 
feet,  finally  ended  with  a  crashing  chord,  and  whizzed 
round  on  the  music-stool  in  time  to  catch  her  as  she  fell 
gasping  against  him. 

"What  a  featherweight  you  are!"  he  laughed.  "You'll 
dance  the  Thames  on  fire  some  day.  Giddy,  what?" 

Gracie  lay  in  his  arms  in  a  collapsed  condition.  "You — 
you  made  me  do  it!"  she  panted. 

"To  be  sure!"  said  Piers.  "I'm  a  wizard.  Didn't  you 
know?  I  can  make  anybody  do  anything."  There  was  a 
ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice. 

Jeanie  drew  a  deep  breath  and  nodded  from  her  sofa. 
"It's  called  hyp — hyp — Aunt  Avery,  what  is  the  word?" 

"Aunt  Avery  doesn't  know,"  said  Piers.  "And  why 
Aunt  Avery,  I  wonder?  You'll  be  calling  me  Uncle  Piers 
next." 

Both  children  laughed.  "I  have  a  special  name  for 
you,"  Jeanie  said. 

But  Piers  was  not  attending.  He  cast  a  daring  glance 
across  the  room  at  Avery  who  was  darning  stockings  under 
the  lamp. 

"Do  they  call  you  Aunt  Avery  because  you  are  so  old?" 
he  enquired,  as  Avery  did  not  respond  to  it. 

She  smiled  a  little.     "  I  expect  so, "  she  said. 

"Oh  no!"  said  Jeanie  politely.  "Only  because  we  are 
children  and  she  is  grown  up." 


76  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Piers,  with  Gracie  still  lounging  comfortably  on  his 
knee,  bowed  to  her.  "I  thank  your  majesty.  I  appeal 
to  you  as  queen  of  this  establishment;  am  I — as  a  grown 
up — entitled  to  drop  the  title  of  Aunt  when  addressing 
the  gracious  lady  in  question?" 

Again  he  glanced  towards  Avery,  but  she  did  not  raise 
her  eyes.  She  worked  on,  still  with  that  faint,  enigmatical 
smile  about  her  lips. 

Jeanie  looked  slightly  dubious.  "I  don't  think  you 
could  ever  call  her  Aunt,  could  you?"  she  said. 

Piers  turned  upon  the  music-stool,  and  with  one  of 
Gracie's  fingers  began  to  pick  out  an  impromptu  tune 
that  somehow  had  a  saucy  ring. 

"I  like  that,"  said  Gracie,  enchanted. 

He  laughed.  "Yes,  it's  pretty,  isn't  it?  It's — Avery 
without  the  Aunt." 

He  began  to  elaborate  the  tune,  accompanying  it  with 
his  left  hand,  to  Gracie's  huge  delight.  "Here  we  come 
into  a  minor  key,"  he  said,  speaking  obviously  and  exclu 
sively  to  Gracie;  "this  is  Avery  when  she  is  cross  and 
inclined  to  be  down  on  a  fellow.  And  here  we  begin  to 
get  a  little  excited  and  breathless;  this  is  Avery  in  a  tan 
trum,  getting  angrier  and  angrier  every  moment."  He 
hammered  out  his  impertinent  little  melody  with  fevered 
energy,  protest  from  Gracie  notwithstanding.  "  No,  you've 
never  seen  her  in  a  tantrum  of  course.  Thank  your  lucky 
stars  you  haven't!  It's  an  awful  sight,  take  my  word  for 
it!  She  calls  you  a  brute  and  nearly  knocks  you  down 
with  a  horsewhip."  The  music  became  very  descriptive 
at  this  point;  then  gradually  returned  to  the  original 
refrain,  somewhat  amplified  and  embellished.  "This  is 
Avery  in  her  everyday  mood — sweet  and  kind  and  reason 
able, — the  Avery  we  all  know  and  love — with  just  a  hint 
of  what  the  French  call  'diablerie'  to  make  her — tout-a- 
fait  adorable. ' ' 


The  Ticket  of  Leave  77 

He  cast  his  eyes  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  then,  releasing 
Grade's  hand,  brought  his  impromptu  to  a  close  with  a 
few  soft  chords. 

"Here  endeth  the  Avery  Symphony!"  he  declared, 
swinging  round  again  on  the  music-stool.  "I  could  show 
you  another  Avery,  but  she  is  not  on  view  to  everybody. 
It's  quite  possible  that  she  has  never  seen  herself  yet." 

He  got  up  with  the  words,  tweaked  Gracie's  hair,  caressed 
Jeanie's,  and  strolled  across  to  the  fire  beside  which  Avery 
sat  with  her  work. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to  tolerate  me  like  this,"  he 
said. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Avery,  without  raising  her  eyes. 

He  looked  down  at  her,  an  odd  gleam  in  his  own  that  came 
and  went  like  a  leaping  flame. 

"You  suffer  fools  gladly,  don't  you?"  he  said,  a  queer 
inflection  that  was  half  a  challenge  in  his  voice. 

She  frowned  very  slightly  above  her  stocking.  "No1' 
particularly, "  she  said. 

"You  bear  with  them  then?"  Piers  tone  was  insistent. 

She  paused  as  though  considering  her  reply.  "I  generally 
try  to  avoid  them,"  she  said  finally. 

"You  keep  aloof — and  darn  stockings,"  suggested  Piers. 

"And  listen  to  your  music,"  said  Avery. 

"Do  you  like  my  music?"  He  shot  the  question  at  her 
imperiously. 

Avery  nodded. 

"Really?  You  do  really?"  There  was  boyish  eagerness 
about  him  now.  He  leaned  towards  her,  his  brown  face 
aglow. 

She  nodded  again.     "Do  you  ever — write  music?" 

"No,  "said  Piers. 

"Why  not?" 

He  answered  with  a  curious  touch  of  bitterness.  "No 
one  would  understand  it  if  I  did." 


78  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"But  what  a  mistake!"  she  said. 

"Is  it?     Why?"      His  voice  sounded  stubborn. 

She  looked  suddenly  straight  up  at  him  and  spoke  with 
impulsive  warmth.  "Because  it  is  quite  beside  the  point. 
It  wouldn't  matter  to  anyone  but  yourself  whether  people 
understood  it  or  not.  Of  course  popularity  is  pleasant. 
Everyone  likes  it.  But  do  you  suppose  the  really  big 
people  think  at  all  about  the  world's  opinion  when  they  are 
at  work?  They  just  give  of  their  best  because  nothing 
less  would  satisfy  them,  but  they  don't  do  it  because  they 
want  to  be  appreciated  by  the  crowd.  Genius  always 
gets  above  the  crowd.  It's  only  those  who  can't  rise  above 
their  critics  who  really  care  what  the  critics  say." 

She  stopped.  Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  kindling; 
but  she  lowered  them  very  suddenly  and  returned  to  her 
work.  For  the  fitful  gleam  in  Piers'  eyes  had  leaped  in 
response  to  a  blaze  so  hot,  so  ardent,  that  she  could  not 
meet  it  unflinching. 

She  was  oddly  grateful  to  him  when  he  passed  her  brief 
confusion  by  as  though  he  had  not  seen  it.  "So  I'm  a 
genius,  am  I?"  he  said,  and  laughed  a  careless  laugh. 
"Are  you  listening,  Queen  of  my  heart?  Aunt  Avery  says 
I'm  a  genius." 

He  moved  to  Jeanie's  sofa,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
it.  Her  hand  stole  instantly  into  his. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  tired  voice. 
"That's  what  I  meant  when  I  was  trying  to  remember 
that  other  word — the  word  that  begins  'hyp.'" 

"Hypnotism,"  said  Avery  very  quietly. 

Piers  laughed  again.  "It's  a  word  you  don't  understand, 
my  Queen  of  all  good  fairies.  It's  only  the  naughty  fairies 
— the  will-o'-the-wisps  and  the  hobgoblins — that  know 
anything  about  it.  It's  a  wicked  spell  concocted  by  the 
King  of  Evil  himself,  and  it's  only  under  that  spell  that  his 
prisoners  ever  see  the  light.  It's  the  one  ticket  of  leave 


The  Ticket  of  Leave  79 

from  the  dungeons,  and  they  must  either  use  it  or  die  in 
the  dark." 

Jeanie  was  listening  with  a  puzzled  frown,  but  Grade's 
imagination  was  instantly  fired. 

"Do  go  on!"  she  said  eagerly.  "I  know  what  a  ticket 
of  leave  is.  Nurse's  uncle  had  one.  It  means  you  have 
to  go  back  after  a  certain  time,  doesn't  it?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Piers  grimly.  "When  the  ticket 
expires." 

"But  I  don't  see,"  began  Jeanie.  Her  face  was  flushed 
and  a  little  distressed.  "How  can  hypnotism  be  like — • 
like  a  ticket  of  leave?" 

"I  told  you  you  wouldn't  understand,"  said  Piers. 
"You  see  you've  got  to  realize  what  hypnotism  is  before 
you  can  know  what  it's  like.  It's  really  the  art  of  imposing 
one's  will  upon  someone  else's,  of  making  that  other  person 
see  things  as  you  want  them  to  see  them — not  as  they  really 
are.  It's  the  power  of  deception  carried  to  a  superlative 
degree.  And  when  that  power  is  exhausted,  the  ticket 
may  be  said  to  have  expired — and  the  prisoner  returns  to 
the  dungeon.  Sometimes  he  takes  the  other  person  with 
him.  Sometimes  he  goes  alone." 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  a  hand  rapped  smartly  on  the  door. 

Avery  looked  up  again  from  her  work.  "Come  in!" 
she  said. 

"It's  the  doctor!"  whispered  Gracie  to  Piers.  "Bother 
him!" 

Piers  laughed  with  his  lower  lip  between  his  teeth,  and 
Lennox  Tudor  opened  the  door  and  paused  upon  the 
threshold. 

Avery  rose  to  receive  him,  but  his  look  passed  her  almost 
instantly  and  rested  frowningly  upon  Piers. 

"Enter  the  Lord  High  Executioner!"  said  Piers  flippantly. 
"Well?  Who  is  the  latest  victim?  And  what  have  you 
come  here  for?" 


80  The  Bars  of  Iron 

The  doctor  came  in.  He  shook  hands  with  Avery,  and 
turned  at  once  to  Piers. 

"I  have  come  to  see  my  patient, "  he  said  aggressively. 

"Have  you?"  said  Piers.  "So  have  I."  He  stood  up, 
squaring  his  broad  shoulders.  "And  I'm  coming  again— 
by  special  invitation."  His  dark  eyes  flung  a  gibe  with  the 
words. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Evesham!"  said  Avery  somewhat 
pointedly. 

He  turned  sharply,  and  took  her  extended  hand  with 
elaborate  courtesy. 

"Good-bye, — Airs.  Denys!"  he  said. 

"I'll  come  down  and  see  you  off, "  cried  Gracie,  attaching 
herself  to  his  free  arm. 

"Ah!  Wait  a  bit!"  said  Piers.  "I  haven't  said  good 
bye  to  the  Queen  of  the  fairies  yet." 

He  dropped  upon  one  knee  by  Jeanie's  sofa.  Her  arm 
slid  round  his  neck. 

"When  will  you  come  again?"  she  whispered. 

"When  do  you  hold  your  next  court?"  he  whispered 
back. 

She  smiled,  her  pale  face  close  to  his.  "I  love  to  see  you 
— always,"  she  said.  "Come  just  any  time!" 

"Shall  I?  "said  Piers. 

He  was  looking  straight  into  the  tired,  blue  eyes,  and 
his  own  were  soft  with  a  tenderness  that  must  have  charmed 
any  child  to  utter  confidence.  She  lifted  her  lips  to  his. 
"As  often  as  ever  you  can,"  she  murmured. 

He  kissed  her.     "I  will.     Good-night,  my  Queen!" 

"Good-night,"  she  answered  softly,  "dear  Sir  Galahad!" 

Avery  had  a  glimpse  of  Piers'  face  as  he  went  away,  and 
she  wondered  momentarily  at  the  look  it  wore. 


CHAPTER  X 

SPORT 

IT  was  the  day  before  Christmas  Eve,  and  Avery  had 
been  shopping. 

She  and  Mrs.  Lorimer  were  preparing  a  Christmas  Tree 
for  the  children,  a  secret  to  which  only  Jeanie  had  been 
admitted.  The  tree  itself  was  already  procured  and 
hidden  away  in  a  corner  of  the  fruit  cupboard — to  which 
special  sanctum  Mrs.  Lorimer  and  Avery  alone  had  access. 
But  the  numerous  gifts  and  ornaments  which  they  had 
been  manufacturing  for  weeks  were  safely  stored  in  a  corner 
of  Avery's  own  room.  It  was  to  complete  this  store  that 
Avery  had  been  down  into  Rodding  that  afternoon,  and 
she  was  returning  laden  and  somewhat  wearied. 

The  red  light  of  a  cloudy  winter  sunset  lay  behind  her. 
Ahead  of  her,  now  veiled,  now  splendidly  revealed,  there 
hung  a  marvellous,  glimmering  star.  A  little  weight  of 
sadness  was  dragging  at  her  heart,  but  she  would  not  give 
it  place  or  so  much  as  acknowledge  its  presence.  She 
hummed  a  carol  as  she  went,  stepping  lightly  through  the 
muddy  fields. 

The  frost  had  given  place  to  an  unseasonable  warmth, 
and  there  had  been  some  heavy  rain  earlier  in  the  day. 
It  was  threatening  to  rain  again.  In  fact,  as  she  mounted 
her  second  stile,  the  first  drops  of  what  promised  to  be  a 
sharp  shower  began  to  fall.  She  cast  a  hasty  glance  around 
*or  shelter,  and  spied  some  twenty  yards  away  against 
*  81 


82  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  hedge  a  hut  which  had  probably  been  erected  for  the 
use  of  some  shepherd.  Swiftly  she  made  for  it,  reaching 
it  just  as  the  shower  became  a  downpour. 

There  was  neither  door  nor  window  to  the  place,  but  an 
ancient  shutter  which  had  evidently  done  duty  for  the 
former  was  lodged  against  the  wall  immediately  inside. 

She  had  to  stoop  to  enter,  and  but  for  the  pelting  rain 
she  might  have  hesitated  to  do  so;  for  the  darkness  within 
was  complete.  But  once  in,  she  turned  her  face  back  to 
the  dying  light  of  the  sunset  and  saw  that  the  rain  would 
not  last. 

At  the  same  moment  she  heard  a  curious  sound  behind 
her,  a  panting,  coughing  sound  as  of  some  creature  in 
distress,  and  something  stirred  in  the  furthest  corner. 
Sharply  she  turned,  and  out  of  the  darkness  two  wild 
green  eyes  glared  up  at  her. 

Avery's  heart  gave  a  great  jerk.  Instinctively  she  drew 
back.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  turn  and  flee,  but  some 
thing — something  which  at  the  moment  she  could  not 
define — prompted  her  to  remain.  The  frantic  terror  of 
those  eyes  appealed  to  that  in  her  which  was  greater  than 
her  own  personal  fear. 

She  paused  therefore,  and  in  the  pause  there  came  to 
her  ears  a  swelling  tumult  that  arose  from  the  ridge  of  an 
eminence  a  couple  of  fields  away.  Right  well  Avery  knew 
that  sound.  In  the  far-off  days  of  her  early  girlhood  it 
had  quickened  her  pulses  many  a  time.  It  was  enough 
even  now  to  set  every  nerve  throbbing  with  a  tense 
excitement. 

She  turned  her  face  once  more  to  the  open,  and  as  she 
did  so  she  heard  again  in  the  hut  behind  her  that  agonized 
sound,  half-cough,  half-whine,  of  an  animal  exhausted  and 
in  the  extremity  of  mortal  fear. 

It  was  enough  for  Avery.  She  grasped  the  situation  on 
the  instant,  and  on  the  instant  she  acted.  She  felt  as  if  P 


Sport  83 

helpless  and  tortured  being  had  cried  to  her  for  deliverance, 
and  all  that  was  great  in  her  responded  to  the  cry. 

She  seized  the  crazy  shutter  that  was  propped  against 
the  wall,  put  forth  her  strength,  and  lifted  it  out  into  the 
open.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  set  it  securely  against  the 
low  doorway.  She  wondered  afterwards  how  she  did  it; 
at  the  time  she  tore  her  gloves  to  ribbons  with  the  exertion, 
but  yet  was  scarcely  aware  of  making  any. 

When  the  pack  swept  across  the  grass  in  a  single  yelling, 
heaving  mass,  she  was  ready.  She  leaned  against  the 
improvised  door  with  arms  outstretched  and  resolutely 
faced  the  swarming,  piebald  multitude. 

In  a  moment  the  hounds  were  upon  her.  She  was 
waist-deep  in  them.  They  leapt  almost  to  her  shoulders 
in  their  madness,  smothering  her  with  mud  and  slobber. 
For  a  second  or  two  the  red  eyes  and  gaping  jaws  made  even 
Avery's  brave  heart  quail.  But  she  stood  her  ground, 
ordering  them  back  with  breathless  insistence.  They 
must  have  thought  her  a  maniac,  she  reflected  afterwards. 
At  the  time  she  fully  expected  to  be  torn  in  pieces,  and  was 
actually  surprised  when  they  suddenly  parted  and  swept 
round  the  hut,  encircling  it  with  deep-mouthed  baying. 

The  huntsman,  arriving  on  the  scene,  found  her  white- 
faced  but  still  determined,  still  firmly  propping  the  shutter 
in  place  with  the  weight  of  her  body.  He  called  the  hounds 
to  order  with  hoarse  oaths  and  furious  crackings  of  the 
whip,  and  as  he  did  so  the  rest  of  the  field  began  to  arrive, 
a  laughing,  trampling  crowd  of  sportsmen  who  dropped 
into  staring,  astounded  silence  as  they  reached  the  scene. 

And  then  the  huntsman  addressed  Avery  with  sardonic 
affability. 

"P'r'aps  now,  miss,  you'd  be  good  enough  to  step  aside 
and  let  the  'ounds  attend  to  business." 

But  Avery,  with  eyes  that  blazed  in  her  pale  face,  made 
scathing  answer. 


84  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"You  shan't  kill  the  poor  brute  like  a  rat  in  a  trap. 
He  deserves  better  than  that.  You  had  your  chance  of 
killing  in  the  open,  and  you  failed.  It  isn't  sport  to  kill 
in  the  dark." 

"We'll  soon  have  'im  out,"  said  the  huntsman  grimly. 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  hands,  in  the  ripped  gloves, 
were  clenched  and  quivering. 

The  huntsman  slashed  and  swore  at  one  of  the  hounds 
to  relieve  his  feelings,  and  looked  for  inspiration  to  the 
growing  crowd  of  riders. 

One  of  them,  the  M.  F.  H.,  Colonel  Rose  of  Warden- 
hurst,  pushed  his  horse  forward.  He  raised  his  hat  with 
extreme  courtliness. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "while  appreciating  your  courage, 
allow  me  to  point  out  that  that  fox  is  now  the  legal  property 
of  the  Hunt,  and  you  have  no  right  whatever  to  deprive 
us  of  it." 

His  daughter  Ina,  a  slim  girl  of  twenty,  was  at  his  elbow. 
She  jogged  it  impatiently.  "He'll  remain  our  property 
whether  we  kill  or  not,  Dad.  Let  him  live  to  run  again! " 

"What?"  cried  a  voice  in  the  rear.  "Let  a  woman 
interfere?  Great  Heavens  above,  Barchard!  Have  you 
gone  mad?" 

Barchard  the  huntsman  glanced  round  uneasily  as  an 
old  man  on  a  powerful  white  horse  forced  his  way  to  the 
front.  His  grey  eyes  glowered  down  at  Avery  as  though 
he  would  slay  her.  The  trampling  hoofs  came  within 
a  yard  of  her.  But  if  he  thought  to  make  her  desert  her 
post  by  that  means,  he  was  mistaken.  She  stood  there, 
actually  waiting  to  be  hustled  by  the  fretting  animal, 
and  yielding  not  an  inch. 

"Stand  aside!"  thundered  Sir  Beverley.  "Confound 
you !  Stand  aside ! ' ' 

But  Avery  never  stirred.  She  faced  him  panting  but 
unflinching.  The  foam  of  his  hunter  splashed  her,  the 


Sport  85 

mud  from  the  stamping  hoofs  struck  upwards  on  her  face; 
but  still  she  stood  to  defend  the  defenceless  thing  behind 
her. 

She  often  wondered  afterwards  what  Sir  Beverley  would 
have  done  had  he  been  left  to  settle  the  matter  in  his  own 
way.  She  was  horribly  afraid,  but  she  certainly  would 
never  have  yielded  to  aught  but  brute  force. 

But  at  this  juncture  there  came  a  sudden  diversion. 
Another  voice  made  itself  heard  in  furious  protest .  Another 
horse  was  spurred  forward;  and  Piers,  white  to  the  lips, 
with  eyes  of  awful  flame,  leaned  from  his  saddle  and  with 
his  left  hand  caught  Sir  Beverley's  bridle,  dragging  his 
animal  back. 

What  he  said  A  very  did  not  hear;  it  was  spoken  under 
his  breath.  But  she  saw  a  terrible  look  flash  like  an  evil 
spirit  into  Sir  Beverley's  face.  She  saw  his  right  arm  go 
up,  and  heard  his  riding-crop  descend  with  a  sound  like  a 
pistol-shot  upon  Piers'  shoulders. 

It  was  a  horrible  sight  and  one  which  she  was  never  to 
forget.  Both  horses  began  to  leap  madly,  the  one  Sir 
Beverley  rode  finally  rearing  and  being  pulled  down  again 
by  Piers  who  hung  on  to  the  bridle  like  grim  death,  his 
head  bent,  his  shoulders  wholly  exposed  to  those  crashing 
merciless  blows. 

They  reeled  away  at  length  through  the  crowd,  which 
scattered  in  dismay  to  let  them  pass,  but  for  many  seconds 
it  seemed  to  Avery  that  the  awful  struggle  went  on  in  the 
dusk  as  Piers  dragged  his  grandfather  from  the  spot. 

A  great  weakness  had  begun  to  assail  her.  Her  knees 
were  quivering  under  her.  She  wondered  what  the  next 
move  would  be,  and  felt  utterly  powerless  to  put  forth  any 
further  effort.  And  then  she  heard  Ina  Rose's  clear  young 
voice. 

"Barchard,  take  the  hounds  back  to  kennels!  I'm  sure 
we've  all  had  enough  for  one  day." 


86  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  a  man  in  the  crowd. 

And  Ina  laughed.  "Thank  you,  Dick!  Come  alongf. 
Dad!  Leave  the  horrid  old  fox  alone!  Don't  you  think 
we  ought  to  go  and  separate  Sir  Beverley  and  Piers?  What 
an  old  pepper-pot  he  is!" 

"Piers  isn't  much  better,"  remarked  the  man  she  had 
called  Dick.  His  proper  appellation  was  Richard  Guyes, 
but  his  friends  never  stood  on  ceremony  with  him. 

The  girl  laughed  again  inconsequently.  She  was  spoken 
of  by  some  as  the  spoilt  beauty  of  the  county.  "Oh,  Piers 
is  stuffed  tight  with  gunpowder  as  everybody  knows.  He 
explodes  at  a  touch.  Get  along,  Barchard!  What  are 
you  waiting  for?  I  told  you  to  take  the  hounds  home." 

Barchard  looked  at  the  Colonel. 

"I  suppose  you'd  better,"  the  latter  said.  He  threw 
a  glance  of  displeasure  at  Avery.  "It's  a  most  unheard 
of  affair  altogether,  but  I  admit  there's  not  much  to  be 
said  for  a  kill  in  cold  blood.  Yes,  take  'em  home!" 

Barchard  made  a  savage  cut  at  two  of  the  hounds  who 
were  scratching  and  whimpering  at  a  tiny  chink  in  the 
boarding,  and  with  surly  threats  collected  the  pack  and 
moved  off. 

The  rest  of  the  field  melted  away  into  the  deepening 
dusk.  Ina  and  Dick  Guyes  were  among  the  last  to  go. 
They  moved  off  side  by  side. 

"It'll  be  the  laugh  of  the  county,"  the  man  said,  "but, 
egad,  I  like  her  pluck." 

And  in  answer  the  girl  laughed  again,  a  careless,  merry 
laugh.  "Yes,  I  wonder  who  she  is.  A  friend  of  Piers' 
apparently.  Did  you  see  what  a  stiff  fury  he  was  in?" 

"It  was  a  fairly  stiff  flogging,"  remarked  Guyes.  "Ye 
gods!  I  wonder  how  he  stood  it." 

"Oh,  Piers  can  stand  anything."  said  Ina  unconcernedly. 
"He's  as  strong  as  an  ox." 

The   voices   dwindled   and   died   in   the   distance.     The 


Sport  87 

dusk  deepened.  A  sense  of  utter  forlornness,  utter  weari 
ness,  came  upon  Avery.  The  struggle  was  over,  and  she 
had  emerged  triumphant;  but  it  did  not  seem  to  matter. 
She  could  think  only  of  those  awful  blows  raining  down 
upon  the  defenceless  shoulders  of  the  boy  who  had  cham 
pioned  her.  And,  leaning  there  in  the  drizzling  wet,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  wept. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  STAR  OF  HOPE 

THERE  came  the  swift  drumming  of  galloping  hoofs, 
the  check  and  pause  of  a  leap,  and  then  close  at 
hand  the  thud  of  those  same  hoofs  landing  on  the  near  side 
of  the  hedge.  The  rider  slithered  to  the  ground,  patted 
the  animal's  neck,  and  turned  forthwith  towards  the  hut. 
Avery  heard  nought  of  his  coming.  She  was  crying  like 
a  weak,  unnerved  woman,  draggled  and  mud-spattered, 
unspeakably  distressed.  It  was  so  seldom  that  she  gave 
way  that  perhaps  the  failure  of  her  self-control  was  the 
more  absolute  when  it  came.  She  had  been  tried  beyond 
her  strength.  Body  and  mind  were  alike  exhausted. 

But  when  strong  arms  suddenly  encircled  her  and  she 
found  herself  drawn  close  to  a  man's  breast,  quick  and 
instinctive  came  the  impulse  to  resist.  She  drew  back 
from  him  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 

"It's  only  me,"  said  Piers.  "Surely  you  don't  mind 
me!" 

It  was  naively  expressed,  so  naively  that  she  assayed  to 
laugh  in  the  midst  of  her  woe.  "Oh,  how  you  startled 
me!"  was  all  she  found  to  say. 

"But  surely  you  knew  I  was  coming  back!"  he  said. 

The  dogged  note  was  in  his  voice.  It  embarrassed  her 
subtly.  Seeing  his  face  through  the  deepening  gloom,  it 
seemed  to  her  to  be  set  in  stern,  unyielding  lines. 

She  collected  her  scattered  forces,  and  gently  put  his 


The  Star  of  Hope  89 

arms  away  from  her.  "It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Mr. 
Evesham, "  she  said.  "But  please  remember  that  I'm  not 
Jeanie!" 

He  made  an  impulsive  movement  of  impatience.  "I 
never  pretended  you  were,"  he  said  gruffly.  "But  you 
were  crying,  weren't  you?  Why  were  you  crying?" 

His  tone  was  almost  aggressive.  He  seemed  to  be 
angry,  but  whether  with  her,  himself,  or  a  third  person, 
A  very  could  not  determine. 

She  decided  that  the  situation  demanded  firmness,  and 
proceeded  to  treat  it  accordingly. 

"I  was  very  foolish  to  cry,"  she  said.  "I  have  quite 
recovered  now,  so  please  forget  it!  It  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  take  my  part  a  little  while  ago — especially  as  you 
couldn't  have  been  really  in  sympathy  with  me.  Thank 
you  very  much!" 

Again  he  made  that  gesture  of  imperious  impatience. 
"Oh,  don't  be  so  beastly  formal!  I  can't  stand  it.  If 
it  had  been  any  other  man  threatening  you,  I  believe  I 
should  have  killed  him!" 

He  spoke  with  concentrated  passion,  but  A  very  was 
resolved  not  to  be  tragic.  She  was  striving  to  get  back 
to  wholesome  commonplace. 

"What  a  good  thing  it  wasn't!"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't 
have  cared  to  have  been  responsible  for  that.  I  had  quite 
enough  to  answer  for  as  it  was.  I  hope  you  will  make 
peace  with  your  grandfather  as  soon  as  possible." 

Piers  laughed  a  savage  laugh.  "He  broke  his  whip  over 
me.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  make  peace  with  him  for 
that?" 

"Oh,  Piers!"  she  exclaimed  in  distress. 

It  was  out  before  she  could  check  it — that  involuntary 
use  of  his  Christian  name  for  which  it  seemed  to  her  after 
wards  he  had  been  deliberately  lying  in  wait. 

He  did  not  take  immediate  advantage  of  her  slip,  but 


90  The  Bars  of  Iron 

she  knew  that  he  noticed  it,  registered  it  as  it  were  for 
future  reference. 

"No,"  he  said  moodily,  after  a  pause.  "I  dpnjfe'-think 
the  debt  is  on  my  side  this  time.  He  had  the  satisfaction 
of  flogging  me  with  the  whole  Hunt  looking  oh."  There 
was  sullen  resentment  in  his  tone,  and  then  very  suddenly 
to  Avery's  amazement  he  began  to  laugh.  "It  was  worth 
it  anyway,  so  we  won't  cavil  about  the  price.-  How  much 
longer  are  you  going  to  bottle  up  that  unfortunate  brute? 
Don't  you  think  it's  time  he  went  home  to  his  wife?" 

Avery  moved  away  from  the  shutter  against  which  she 
had  stood  so  long.  "I  couldn't  let  him  be  killed,"  she 
said.  "You  won't  understand,  of  course.  But  I  simply 
couldn't." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  understand?"  said  Piers.  "You 
threw  that  in  my  teeth  before.  I  don't  know  why." 

His  tone  baffled  her.  She  could  not  tell  whether  he  spoke 
in  jest  or  earnest.  She  refrained  from  answering  him, 
and  in  the  silence  that  followed  he  lifted  the  shutter  away 
from  the  hut  entrance  and  looked  inside.  Avery's  basket 
of  purchases  lay  at  his  feet.  He  picked  it  up.  "Come 
along!  He's  crouched  up  in  the  corner,  and  his  eyes  look 
as  if  he  thought  all  the  devils  in  hell  were  after  him.  Odd 
as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  can  understand  his  feelings — and 
yours.  Let's  go,  and  leave  him  to  escape  in  peace!" 

He  took  her  arm  as  naturally  as  though  he  had  a  right, 
and  led  her  away.  Her  basket  was  in  his  other  hand  in 
which  he  carried  his  riding-whip  also.  He  whistled  over 
his  shoulder  to  his  horse  who  followed  him  like  a  dog. 

The  rain  was  gradually  ceasing,  but  the  clouds  had 
wholly  closed  upon  the  sunset.  Avery  did  not  want  to 
walk  in  silence,  but  somehow  she  could  not  help  it.  His 
hold  upon  her  arm  was  as  light  as  a  feather,  but  she  could 
not  help  that  either  for  the  moment.  She  walked  as  one 
beneath  a  spell. 


The  Star  of  Hope  91 

And  before  them  the  clouds  slowly  parted,  and  again 
there  shone  that  single,  magic  star,  dazzingly  pure  against 
the  darkness. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  said  Piers  suddenly. 

She  assented  almost  under  her  breath. 

For  a  moment  she  was  conscious  of  the  tightening  of  his 
hand  at  her  elbow.  "It's  the  Star  of  Hope,  A  very, "  he 
whispered.  "Yours — and  mine."  He  stopped  with  the 
words.  "Don't  say  anything!"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Pre 
tend  you  didn't  hear,  if — if  you  wish  you  hadn't.  Good 
bye!" 

He  thrust  her  basket  into  her  hand,  and  turned  from  her. 

A  moment  he  stood  as  if  to  give  her  the  opportunity  of 
detaining  him  if  she  so  desired,  and  then  as  she  made  no 
sign  he  went  to  his  horse  who  waited  a  couple  of  yards 
away,  mounted,  and  without  word  or  salute  rode  away. 

Avery  drew  a  deep,  deep  breath  and  walked  on.  There 
was  a  curious  sensation  at  her  heart — almost  a  trapped 
feeling — such  as  she  had  never  before  experienced.  Again 
deeply  she  drew  her  breath,  as  if  to  rid  herself  of  some 
oppression.  Life  was  difficult — life  was  difficult! 

But  presently,  as  she  walked,  the  sense  of  oppression 
lessened.  She  even  faintly  smiled  to  herself.  What  an 
odd,  passionate  youth  he  was!  It  was  impossible  to  be 
angry  with  him;  better  far  not  to  take  him  seriously  at  all. 

She  recalled  old  Mrs.  Marshall's  dour  remarks  concerning 
him; — "brought  up  by  men  from  his  cradle,"  brought  up, 
moreover,  by  that  terrible  old  Sir  Beverley  on  the  one 
hand  and  an  irresponsible  French  valet  on  the  other.  She 
caught  herself  wishing  that  she  had  had  the  upbringing 
of  him,  and  smiled  again.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
sweetness  in  his  nature;  of  that  she  was  sure,  and  because 
of  it  she  found  she  could  forgive  his  waywardness,  reflecting 
that  he  had  probably  been  mismanaged  from  his  earliest 
infancy. 


92  The  Bars  of  Iron 

At  this  point  she  reached  the  high-road,  and  heard  the 
wheels  of  a  dog-cart  behind  her.  She  recognized  the 
quick,  hard  trot  of  the  doctor's  cob,  and  paused  at  the  side 
of  the  road  to  let  him  pass.  But  the  doctor's  eyes  behind 
their  glasses  were  keen  as  a  hawk's.  He  recognized  her, 
the  deepening  dusk  notwithstanding,  while  he  was  still 
some  yards  from  her,  and  pulled  in  his  horse  to  a  walk. 

"Jump  up!"  he  said.     "I'm  going  your  way." 

He  reached  down  a  hand  to  her,  and  Avery  mounted 
beside  him.  "How  lucky  for  me!"  she  said. 

"Tired,  eh?"  he  questioned. 

She  laughed  a  little.  "Oh  no,  not  really.  But  it's  nice 
to  get  a  lift.  Were  you  coming  to  see  Jeanie?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tudor  briefly. 

She  glanced  at  him,  caught  by  something  in  his  tone. 
"Dr.  Tudor,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "are 
you — altogether — satisfied  about  her?" 

Tudor  was  looking  at  his  horse's  ears;  for  some  reason 
he  was  holding  the  animal  in  to  a  walk.  "I  am  quite 
satisfied  with  regard  to  the  fracture,"  he  said.  "She  will 
soon  be  on  her  legs  again." 

His  words  were  deliberately  wary.  Avery  felt  a  little 
tremor  of  apprehension  go  through  her. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  consider  her  very  strong,"  she 
said  uneasily. 

He  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  had  a  feeling  that  he  was 
debating  within  himself  as  to  the  advisability  of  replying 
at  all.  And  then  quite  suddenly  he  turned  his  head  and 
spoke.  "Mrs.  Denys,  you  are  accustomed  to  hearing 
other  people's  burdens,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  can't  say — because  I  don't  know— if  there  is  anything 
radically  wrong  with  that  little  girl ;  but  she  has  no  stamina 
whatever.  If  she  had  to  contend  with  anything  serious, 
things  would  go  very  badly  with  her.  In  any  case — " 
he  paused. 


The  Star  of  Hope  93 

"Yes?"  said  Avery. 

Tudor  had  become  wary  again.  "Perhaps  I  have  said 
enough,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  hesitate  to  speak  quite 
openly, "  she  rejoined  steadily.  "As  you  say,  I  am  a  bearer 
of  burdens.  And  I  don't  think  I  am  easily  frightened." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  not, "  he  said.  " If  I  may  be  allowed 
to  say  so,  I  think  you  are  essentially  a  woman  to  be  relied 
on.  If  I  did  not  think  so,  I  certainly  should  not  have 
spoken  as  I  have  done." 

"Then  will  you  tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  fear  for  her?'' 
Avery  said. 

He  was  looking  straight  at  her  through  the  gloom,  but 
she  could  not  see  his  eyes  behind  their  glasses.  "Well," 
he  said  somewhat  brusquely  at  length,  "to  be  quite  honest, 
I  fear — mind  you,  I  only  fear — some  trouble,  possibly 
merely  some  delicacy,  of  the  lungs.  Without  a  careful 
examination  I  cannot  speak  definitely.  But  I  think  there  is 
little  room  for  doubt  that  the  tendency  is  there." 

"I  see,"  Avery  said.  She  was  silent  a  moment;  then, 
"You  have  not  considered  it  advisable  to  say  this  to  her 
father?"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Would  it  make  any 
difference?" 

Avery  was  silent. 

He  went  on  with  gathering  force.  "I  went  to  him  once, 
Mrs.  Denys, — once  only — about  his  wife's  health.  I  told 
him  in  plain  language  that  she  needed  every  care,  every 
consideration,  that  without  these  she  would  probably  lose 
all  her  grip  on  life  and  become  a  confirmed  invalid  with 
shattered  nerves.  I  was  very  explicit.  I  told  him  the 
straight,  unvarnished  truth.  I  didn't  like  my  job,  but  I 
felt  it  must  be  done.  And  he — good  man — laughed  in  my 
face,  begged  me  to  croak  no  more,  and  assured  me  that  he 
was  fully  capable  of  managing  all  his  affairs,  including 


94  The  Bars  of  Iron 

his  wife  and  family,  in  his  own  way.  He  was  touring  in 
Switzerland  when  the  last  child  was  born." 

"  Hound!  "  said  Avery,  in  a  low  voice. 

Tudor  uttered  a  brief  laugh,  and  abruptly  quitted  the 
subject.  "  That  little  girl  needs  very  careful  watching, 
Mrs.  Denys.  She  should  never  be  allowed  to  overtire 
herself,  mentally  or  physically.  And  if  she  should  develop 
any  untoward  symptom,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  hesitate 
to  send  for  me!  I  shan't  blame  you  for  being  too  careful." 

"I  understand,"  Avery  said. 

He  flicked  his  horse's  ears,  and  the  animal  broke  into  a 
trot. 

When  Tudor  spoke  again,  it  was  upon  a  totally  different 
matter.  His  voice  was  slightly  aggressive  as  he  said: 
"  That  Evesham  boy  seems  to  be  for  ever  turning  up  at  the 
Vicarage  now.  He's  an  ill-mannered  cub.  I  wonder  you 
encourage  him." 

"Do  I  encourage  him?"  Avery  asked. 

He  made  a  movement  of  irritation.  "He  would  scarcely 
be  such  a  constant  visitor  if  you  didn't." 

Avery  smiled  faintly  and  not  very  humorously  in  the 
darkness.  "  It  is  Jeanie  he  comes  to  see, "  she  observed. 

"Oh,  obviously."  Tudor's  retort  was  so  ironical  as  to 
be  almost  rude. 

She  received  it  in  silence,  and  after  a  moment  he  made  a 
half -grudging  amendment. 

"  He  never  showed  any  interest  in  Jeanie  before,  you 
know.  I  don't  think  she  is  the  sole  attraction." 

"No?"  said  Avery. 

Her  response  was  perfectly  courteous,  but  so  vague  that 
it  sounded  to  Lennox  Tudor  as  if  she  were  thinking  of  some 
thing  else.  He  clenched  his  hand  hard  upon  the  handle 
of  his  whip. 

"People  tolerate  him  for  the  sake  of  his  position,"  he 
said  bitterly.  "But  to  my  mind  he  is  insufferable.  His 


The  Star  of  Hope  95 

father  was  a  scapegrace,  as  everyone  knows.  His  mother 
was  a  circus  girl.  And  his  grandmother — an  Italian — 
was  divorced  by  Sir  Beverley  before  they  had  been  married 
two  years." 

"Oh!"  A  very  emerged  from  her  vagueness  and  turned 
towards  him.  "Lady  Evesham  was  Italian,  was  she? 
That  accounts  for  his  appearance,  doesn't  it?  That  air 
of  the  old  Roman  patrician  about  him;  you  must  have 
noticed  it?" 

"He's  handsome  enough,"  admitted  Tudor. 

"Oh,  very  handsome,"  said  Avery.  "I  should  say  that 
for  that  type  his  face  was  almost  faultless.  I  wondered 
where  he  got  it  from.  Sir  Beverley  is  patrician  too,  but  in 
a  different  way."  She  stopped  to  bow  to  a  tall,  gaunt 
]ady  at  the  s  de  of  the  road.  "That  is  Miss  Whalley. 
Didn't  you  see  her?  I  expect  she  has  just  come  from  the 
Vicarage.  She  was  going  to  discuss  the  scheme  for  the 
Christmas  decorations  with  the  Vicar." 

"She's  good  at  scheming,"  growled  Tudor. 

Avery  became  silent  again.  At  the  Vicarage  gates 
however  very  suddenly  and  sweetly  she  spoke.  "Dr. 
Tudor,  forgive  me, — but  isn't  it  rather  a  pity  to  let  oneself 
get  intolerant?  It  does  spoil  life  so." 

He  looked  at  her.  "There's  not  much  in  my  life  that 
could  spoil, "  he  said  gloomily. 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  not  derisively.  "But  there's 
always  something,  isn't  there?  Have  you  no  sense  of 
humour?" 

He  pulled  up  at  the  Vicarage  gates.  "I  haye  a  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,"  he  said  bluntly.  "And  I  detest  it  in 
the  person  of  Miss  Whalley." 

"I  believe  you  detest  a  good  many  people,"  Avery  said, 
as  she  descended. 

He  laughed  himself  at  that.  "But  I  am  capable  of 
appreciating  the  few,"  he  said.  "Mind  the  step!  And 


96  The  Bars  of  Iron 

don't  trouble  to  wait  for  me!  I've  got  to  tie  this  animal 
up." 

He  stopped  to  do  so,  and  Avery  opened  the  gate  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  path. 

At  the  porch  she  paused  to  await  him,  and  turned  her 
face  for  a  moment  to  the  darkening  sky.  But  the  Star  of 
Hope  was  veiled. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    PAIR    OF    GLOVES 

PIERS!     Where  the  devil  are  you,  Piers?" 
There  was  loud  exasperation  in  the  query  as  Sir 
Beverley  halted  in  the  doorway  of  his  grandson's  bedroom. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  Victor  the  valet  came 
quickly  forward. 

"But,  Monsieur  Pierre,  he  bathe  himself,"  he  explained, 
with  beady  eyes  running  over  the  gaunt  old  figure  in  the 
entrance. 

Sir  Beverley  growled  at  him  inarticulately  and  turned 
away. 

A  moment  later  he  was  beating  a  rousing  tattoo  on  the 
bathroom-door.  "Piers!  Let  me  .n!  Do  you  hear? 
Let  me  in!" 

The  vigorous  splashing  within  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 
"That  you,  sir?"  called  Piers. 

"Of  course  it's  me!"  shouted  back  Sir  Beverley,  shaking 
the  door  with  fierce  impatience.  "  Damn  it,  let  me  in !  I'll 
force  the  door  if  you  don't." 

"No,  don't,  sir;  don't!     I'm  coming!" 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  splashing  leap,  and  bare  feet 
raced  across  the  bathroom  floor.  The  door  was  wrenched 
from  Sir  Beverley's  grasp,  and  flung  open.  Piers,  quite 
naked,  stood  back  and  bowed  him  in  with  elaborate 
r.eremony. 

7  97 


98  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Sir  Beverley  entered  and  glared  at  him. 

Piers  shut  the  door  and  took  a  flying  jump  back  into  the 
bath.  The  room  was  dense  with  steam. 

"You  don't  m  nd  if  I  go  on  with  my  wash,  do  you?" 
he  said.  "I  shall  be  late  for  dinner  if  I  don't." 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  want  to  boil  yourself  like  this 
for?"  demanded  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers,  seated  with  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees, 
looked  up  with  the  smile  of  an  infant.  "It  suits  my  con 
stitution,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  freeze  myself  in  the  morning 
and  boil  myself  at  night — always.  By  that  means  I  am 
rendered  impervious  to  all  atmospheric  changes  of  tempera 
ture." 

"You're  a  fool,  Piers,"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  laughed,  a  gay,  indifferent  laugh.  "That  all?" 
he  said  lightly. 

"No,  it  isn't  all."  Sir  Beverley's  voice  had  a  curious 
forced  ring,  almost  as  if  he  were  stern  in  spite  of  himself. 
"I  came  to  ask — and  I  mean  to  know — "  He  broke  off. 
"What  the  devil  have  you  done  to  your  shoulders?" 

Piers'  hands  unlocked  as  if  at  the  touch  of  a  spring.  He 
slipped  down  backwards  into  the  bath  and  lay  with  the 
water  lapping  round  his  black  head.  His  eyes,  black  also, 
and  very  straight  and  resolute,  looked  up  at  Sir  Beverley. 

"Look  here,  sir;  if  there's  anything  you  want  to  know 
I'll  tell  you  after  dinner.  I  thought — possibly — you'd 
come  to  shake  hands,  or  I  shouldn't  have  been  in  such  a 
hurry  to  let  you  in.  As  it  is, " 

"Confound  you,  Piers!"  broke  in  Sir  Beverley.  "Don't 
preach  to  me!  Sit  up  again!  Do  you  hear?  Sit  up,  and 
let  me  look  at  you!" 

But  Piers  made  no  movement  to  comply.  "No,  sir; 
thanks  all  the  same.  I  don't  want  to  be  looked  at.  Do 
you  mind  going  now?  I'm  going  to  splash." 

His  tone  was  deliberately  jaunty,  but  it  held  undoubted 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  99 

determination.  He  kept  his  eyes  unswervingly  on  his 
grandfather's  face. 

Sir  Beverley  stood  his  ground,  however,  his  black  brows 
fiercely  drawn.  "Get  up,  Piers!"  he  ordered,  his  tone  no 
longer  blustering,  but  curtly  peremptory.  "Get  up,  do  you 
hear?"  he  added  with  a  gleam  of  humour.  "You  may  as 
well  give  in  at  once,  you  young  mule.  You'll  have  to  in 
the  end." 

"Shall  I?  "said  Piers. 

And  then  suddenly  his  own  sense  of  humour  was  kindled 
again,  and  he  uttered  his  boyish  laugh. 

"We  won't  quarrel  about  it,  what?  "  he  said,  and  stretched 
a  wet  hand  upwards.  "Let's  consider  the  incident  closed! 
There's  nothing  whatever  to  be  fashed  about." 

Sir  Beverley's  thin  lips  twitched  a  little.  He  pulled 
at  the  hand,  and  slowly  Piers  yielded.  The  water  dripped 
from  his  shoulders.  They  gleamed  in  the  strong  light  like  a 
piece  of  faultless  statuary,  godlike,  superbly  strong.  But 
it  was  upon  no  splendour  of  form  that  Sir  Beverley's  atten 
tion  was  focussed. 

He  spoke  after  a  moment,  an  odd  note  of  contrition  in 
his  voice.  "I  didn't  mean  to  mark  you  like  that,  boy.  It 
was  your  own  doing  of  course.  You  shouldn't  have  inter 
fered  with  me. .  Still " 

"Oh,  rats!"  said  Piers,  beginning  to  splash.  "What's  a 
whacking  more  or  less  when  you're  used  to  'em?" 

His  dark  eyes  laughed  their  impudent  dismissal  to  the 
old  man.  It  was  very  evident  that  he  desired  to  put  an 
end  to  the  matter,  and  after  a  moment  Sir  Beverley  grunted 
and  withdrew. 

He  had  not  asked  what  he  wanted  to  know;  somehow  it 
had  not  been  possible.  He  had  desired  to  put  his  question 
in  a  whirl  of  righteous  indignation,  but  in  some  fashion 
Piers  had  disarmed  him  and  it  had  remained  unuttered. 
The  very  sight  of  the  straight,  young  figure  had  quenched 


ioo  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  fire  of  his  wrath.  Confound  the  boy!  Did  he  think 
he  could  insult  him  as  he  had  insulted  him  only  that  after 
noon  and  then  twist  him  round  his  little  finger?  He  would 
have  it  out  with  him  presently.  He  would  have  the  truth 
and  no  compromise,  if  he  had  to  wring  it  out  of  him.  He 
would —  Again  the  vision  of  those  strong  young  shoulders, 
with  red  stripes  crossing  their  gleaming  white  surface,  rose 
before  Sir  Beverley.  He  swore  a  strangled  oath.  No,  he 
hadn't  meant  to  punish  the  boy  to  that  extent,  his  infernal 
impudence  notwithstanding.  It  wasn't  the  first  time  he  had 
thrashed  him,  and,  egad,  it  mightn't  be  the  last.  But  he 
hadn't  meant  to  administer  quite  such  a  punishment  as 
that.  It  was  decent  of  the  young  rascal  not  to  sulk  after 
it,  though  he  wasn't  altogether  sure  that  he  approved  of 
the  light  fashion  with  which  Piers  had  elected  to  treat  the 
whole  episode.  It  looked  as  if  he  had  not  wholly  taken  to 
heart  the  lesson  Sir  Beverley  had  intended  to  convey,  and 
if  that  were  the  case — again  Sir  Beverley  swore  deep  in  his 
soul — he  was  fully  equal  to  repeating  it,  ay,  and  again 
repeating  it,  until  the  youngster  came  to  heel.  He  never 
had  endured  any  nonsense  from  Piers,  and,  by  Gad,  he 
never  would ! 

With  these  reflections  he  stumped  downstairs,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  black,  oaken  settle  in  the  hall  to 
await  the  boy's  advent. 

The  fire  blazed  cheerily,  flinging  ruddy  gleams  upon  the 
shining  suits  of  armour,  roaring  up  the  chimney  in  a  sheet 
of  flame.  Sir  Beverley  sat  facing  the  stairs,  the  grim  lines 
hardened  to  implacability  about  his  mouth,  his  eyes  fixed 
in  a  stare  that  had  in  it  something  brutal.  He  was  seeing 
again  that  slim,  straight  figure  of  womanhood  standing  in 
his  path,  with  arms  outstretched,  and  white,  determined 
face  upraised,  barring  the  way. 

"Curse  her!"  he  growled.     "Curse  'em  all!" 

The  vision  grew  before  his  gaze  of  hate ;  and  now  she  was 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  101 

-*IL- 

no  longer  standing  between  him  and  a  mere,  defenceless 
animal.  But  there,  on  his  own  stairs,  erect  and  fearless, 
she  withstood  him,  while  behind  her,  descending  with  a 
laugh  on  his  lips  and  worship  in  his  eyes,  came  Piers. 

The  stone-grey  eyes  became  suffused;  for  a  few,  whirling 
moments  of  bewilderment  and  fury,  they  saw  all  things 
red.  Then,  gradually,  the  mist  cleared,  and  the  old  man 
dropped  back  in  a  lounging  posture  with  an  ugly  sound  in 
his  throat  that  was  like  a  snarl.  Doubtless  that  was  her 
game;  doubtless — doubtless!  He  had  always  known  that 
a  day  would  come  when  something  of  the  kind  would 
happen.  Piers  was  young,  wealthy,  handsome, — a  catch 
for  any  woman;  but — fiercely  he  swore  it — he  should  fall  a 
prey  to  no  schemer.  When  he  married — as  marry  eventu 
ally  he  must — he  should  make  an  alliance  of  which  any  man 
might  be  proud.  The  Evesham  blood  should  mix  with  none 
but  the  highest.  In  Piers  he  would  see  the  father's  false 
step  counteracted.  He  thanked  Heaven  that  he  had  never 
been  able  to  detect  in  the  boy  any  trace  of  the  piece  of  cheap 
prettiness  that  had  given  him  birth.  He  might  have  been 
his  own  son,  son  of  the  woman  who  had  been  the  rapture 
and  the  ruin  of  his  life.  There  were  times  when  Sir  Beverley 
almost  wished  he  had  been,  albeit  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
soul  he  had  never  had  any  love  for  the  child  she  had  borne 
him. 

He  had  never  wanted  to  love  Piers  either,  but  somehow  the 
matter  had  not  rested  with  him.  From  the  arms  of  Victor, 
Piers  had  always  yearned  to  his  grandfather,  wailing  lustily 
till  he  found  himself  held  to  the  hard  old  heart  that  had 
nought  but  harshness  and  intolerance  for  all  the  world 
beside.  He  had  as  it  were  taken  that  unwilling  heart  by 
storm,  claiming  it  as  his  right  before  he  was  out  of  his 
cradle.  And  later  the  attachment  between  them  had  grown 
and  thriven,  for  Piers  had  never  relinquished  the  ground 
he  had  won  in  babyhood.  By  sheer  arrogance  of  possession 


io2  The  Bars  of  Iron 

he  had  held  his  own  till  the  impetuous  ardour  of  his  affection 
and  the  utter  fearlessness  on  which  it  was  founded  had 
made  of  him  the  cherished  idol  of  the  heart  which  had 
tried  to  shut  him  out.  Sir  Beverley  gloried  in  the  boy 
though  he  still  flattered  himself  that  no  one  suspected  the 
fact,  and  still  believed  that  his  rule  was  a  rule  of  stern 
discipline  under  which  Piers  might  chafe  but  against  which 
he  would  never  openly  revolt. 

He  could  not  remember  a  single  occasion  upon  which  he 
had  not  been  able  to  master  Piers,  possibly  after  a  fierce 
struggle  but  always  with  absolute  completeness  in  the  end. 
And  there  was  so  much  of  sweetness  in  the  youngster's 
nature  that,  unruly  though  he  might  be,  he  never  nurtured 
a  grievance.  He  would  fight  for  his  own  way  to  the  last 
of  his  strength,  but  when  beaten  he  always  yielded  with  a 
good  grace.  To  his  grandfather  alone  he  could  submit 
without  any  visible  wound  to  his  pride.  Who  could  help 
glorying  in  a  boy  like  that? 

David  the  butler,  a  man  of  infinite  respectability,  came 
softly  into  the  hall  and  approached  his  master. 

"Are  you  ready  for  dinner,  Sir  Beverley?" 

"No,"  snapped  Sir  Beverley.  "Can't  you  see  Master 
Piers  isn't  here?" 

"Very  good,  sir,"  murmured  David,  and  retired  de 
corously,  fading  into  the  background  without  the  faintest 
sound,  while  Cassar  the  Dalmatian  who  had  entered  with 
him  lay  sedately  down  in  well-bred  silence  at  Sir  Beverley's 
feet. 

There  fell  a  pause,  while  Sir  Beverley's  eyes  returned  to 
the  wide  oak  staircase,  watching  it  ceaselessly,  with  vulture- 
like  intentness.  Then  after  the  passage  of  minutes,  there 
came  the  sound  of  feet  that  literally  scampered  along  the 
corridor  above,  and  in  a  moment,  with  meteor-like  sudden 
ness,  Piers  flashed  into  view. 

He  seemed  to  descend  the  stairs  without  touching  them, 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  103 

and  was  greeted  at  the  foot  by  Caesar,  who  leapt  to  meet 
him  with  wide-mouthed  delight. 

"Hullo,  you  scamp,  hullo!"  laughed  Piers,  responding 
to  the  dog's  caresses  with  a  careless  hand.  "Out  of  the 
way  with  you!  I'm  late." 

"As  usual,"  observed  Sir  Beverley,  leaning  slowly 
forward,  still  with  his  eyes  unblinkingly  fixed  upon  his 
grandson's  merry  face.  "Come  here,  boy!" 

Piers  came  to  him  unabashed. 

Sir  Beverley  got  heavily  to  his  feet  and  took  him  by  the 
shoulder.  "Who  is  that  woman,  Piers?"  he  said,  regarding 
him  piercingly. 

Piers'  forehead  was  instantly  drawn  by  a  quick  frown. 
He  stood  passive,  but  there  was  a  suggestion  of  resistance 
about  him  notwithstanding. 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  sir?"  he  said.     "What  woman?" 

"You  know  very  well  who  I  mean, "  snarled  Sir  Beverley. 
"Come,  I'll  have  none  of  your  damn'  nonsense.  Never 
have  stood  it  and  never  will.  Who  was  that  white-faced 
cat  that  got  in  my  way  this  afternoon  and  helped  you  to  a 
thrashing?  Eh,  Piers?  Who  was  she,  I  say?  Who  was 
she?" 

Piers  made  a  sharp  involuntary  movement  of  the  hands, 
and  as  swiftly  restrained  himself.  He  looked  his  grand 
father  full  in  the  face. 

"Ask  me  after  dinner,  sir, "  he  said,  speaking  with  some 
thing  of  an  effort,  "and  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know." 

"You'll  tell  me  now!"  declared  Sir  Beverley,  shaking  the 
shoulder  he  gripped  with  savage  impatience. 

But  Piers  put  up  a  quick  hand  and  stopped  him.  "No, 
sir,  not  now.  Come  and  dine  first!  I've  no  mind  to  go 
dinnerless  to  bed.  Come,  sir,  don't  badger  me!"  He 
smiled  suddenly  and  very  winningly  into  the  stern  grey 
eyes.  "There's  all  the  evening  before  us,  and  I  shan't 
shirk." 


IO4  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  drew  the  bony  old  hand  away  from  his  shoulder,  and 
pulled  it  through  his  arm. 

"I  suppose  you  think  you're  irresistible,"  grumbled  Sir 
Beverley.  "I  don't  know  why  I  put  up  with  you;  on  my 
soul,  I  don't,  you  impudent  young  dog!" 

Piers  laughed.  "Let's  do  one  thing  at  a  time  anyway, 
and  I'm  ravenous  for  dinner.  So  must  you  be.  Come 
along!  Let's  trot* in  and  have  it!" 

He  had  his  way.  Sir  Beverley  went  with  him,  though 
half  against  his  will.  They  entered  the  dining-room  still 
linked  together,  and  a  woman's  face  smiled  down  upon  them 
from  a  picture-frame  on  the  wall  with  a  smile  half -sad, 
half-mocking — such  a  smile  as  even  at  that  moment  curved 
Piers'  lips,  belying  the  reckless  gaiety  of  his  eyes. 

They  dined  in  complete  amicability.  Piers  had  plenty 
to  say  at  all  times,  and  he  showed  himself  completely  at  his 
ease.  He  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  ever  was 
so  in  Sir  Beverley's  presence.  He  even  now  and  then 
succeeded  in  provoking  a  sardonic  laugh  from  his  grand 
father.  His  own  laughter  was  boyishly  spontaneous. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  meal,  when  wine  was  placed  upon 
the  table,  he  suddenly  ceased  his  careless  chatter,  and 
leaned  forward  with  his  dark  eyes  full  upon  Sir  Beverley's 
face. 

"Now,  sir,  you  want  to  know  the  name  of  the  girl  who 
wasn't  afraid  of  you  this  afternoon.  I  mentioned  her 
to  you  once  before.  Her  name  is  A  very  Denys.  She  is  a 
widow;  and  she  calls  herself  the  mother's  help  at  the 
Vicarage." 

He  gave  his  information  with  absolute  steadiness.  His 
voice  was  wholly  free  from  emotion  of  any  sort,  but  it 
rang  a  trifle  stern,  and  his  mouth — that  sensitive,  clean- 
cut  mouth  of  his — had  the  grimness  of  an  iron  resolution 
about  it.  Sir  Beverley  looked  at  him  frowningly  over 
his  wine. 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  105 

"The  woman  who  threw  a  pail  of  water  over  you  once, 
eh?"  he  said,  after  a  moment.  "I  suppose  she  has  become 
a  very  special  friend  in  consequence." 

"I  doubt  if  she  would  call  herself  so, "  said  Piers. 

The  old  man's  mouth  took  a  bitter,  downward  curve. 
"You  see,  you're  rather  young,"  he  observed. 

Piers'  eyes  fell  away  from  his  abruptly.  "Yes,  I  know, " 
he  said,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  hide  more  than  it  expressed. 

Sir  Beverley  continued  to  stare  at  him,  but  he  did  not 
lift  his  eyes  again.  They  were  fixed  steadily  upon  the 
ruby  light  that  shone  in  the  wine  in  front  of  him. 

The  silence  lengthened  and  became  oppressive.  Sir 
Beverley  still  watched  Piers'  intent  face.  His  lips  moved 
soundlessly,  while  behind  his  silence  the  storm  of  his  wrath 
gathered. 

What  did  the  boy  mean  by  treating  him  like  this?  Did 
he  think  he  would  endure  to  be  set  aside  thus  deliberately 
as  one  whose  words  had  no  weight?  Did  he  think — con 
found  him! — did  he  think  that  he  had  reached  his  dotage? 

A  sudden  oath  escaped  him;  he  banged  a  furious  fist 
upon  the  table.  He  would  make  himself  heard  at  least. 

In  the  same  instant  quite  unexpectedly  Piers  leaped  to 
his  feet  with  uplifted  hand.  "What's  that? " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  thundered  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers'  hand  descended,  gripping  his  arm.  "That,  sir, 
that!  Don't  you  hear?" 

Voice  and  gesture  compelled.  Sir  Beverley  stopped 
dead,  arrested  in  full  career  by  his  grandson's  insistence, 
and  listened  with  pent  breath,  as  Piers  was  listening. 

.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  heard  nothing,  then,  close  outside 
the  window,  there  arose  the  sound  of  children's  voices. 
They  were  singing  a  hymn,  but  not  in  the  customary  un- 
tuneful  yell  of  the  village  school.  The  voices  were  clear 
and  sweet  and  true,  and  the  words  came  distinct  and  pure 
to  the  two  men  standing  at  the  table. 


io6  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"He  comes,  the  prisoners  to  release 
In  Satan's  bondage  held, 
The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 
The  iron  fetters  yield." 

Piers'  hand  tightened  ail-unconsciously  upon  Sir  Beverley's 
arm.  His  face  was  very  white.  In  his  eyes  there  shone  a 
curious  hunger — such  a  look  as  might  have  gleamed  in  the 
eyes  of  the  prisoners  behind  the  gates. 

Again  came  the  words,  triumphantly  repeated : 

"The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 
The  iron  fetters  yield." 

And  an  odd  sound  that  was  almost  a  sob  broke  from  Piers. 

Sir  Beverley  looked  at  him  sharply;  but  in  the  same 
moment  he  drew  back,  relinquishing  his  hold,  and  stepped 
lightly  across  the  room  to  the  window. 

There  was  a  decided  pause  before  the  next  verse.  Piers 
stood  with  his  face  to  the  blind,  making  no  movement. 
At  last,  tentatively,  like  the  song  of  a  very  shy  angel,  a 
single  boy's  voice  took  up  the  melody. 

"He  comes,  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 
And  with  the  treasures  of  His  grace 
To  bless  the  humble  poor." 

Sir  Beverley  sat  down  again  at  the  table.  Half  mechani 
cally  his  eyes  turned  to  the  pictured  face  on  the  wall,  the 
face  that  smiled  so  enigmatically.  Not  once  in  a  year  did 
his  eyes  turn  that  way.  To-night  he  regarded  it  with  half- 
ironical  interest.  He  had  no  pity  to  spare  for  broken  hearts. 
He  did  not  believe  in  them.  No  man  could  have  endured 
more  than  he  had  had  to  endure.  He  had  been  dragged 
through  hell  itself.  But  it  had  hardened,  not  broken  his 
heart.  Save  in  one  respect  he  knew  that  he  could  never 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  107 

be  made  to  suffer  any  more.  Save  for  that  charred  remnant, 
there  was  nothing  left  for  the  flame  to  consume. 

And  so  through  all  the  bitter  years  he  had  borne  that 
smiling  face  upon  his  wall,  cynically  indifferent  to  the 
beauty  which  had  been  the  rapture  and  the  agony  of  his 
life, — a  man  released  from  the  place  of  his  torment  because 
his  capacity  for  suffering  was  almost  gone. 

Again  there  were  two  children's  voices  singing,  and  that 
of  the  shy  angel  gathered  confidence.  With  a  species  of 
scoffing  humour  Sir  Beverley's  stony  eyes  travelled  to  the 
window.  They  rested  upon  his  boy  standing  there  with 
bent  head — a  mute,  waiting  figure  with  a  curious  touch  of 
pathos  in  its  pose.  Sir  Beverley's  sudden  frown  drew 
his  forehead.  What  ailed  the  youngster?  Why  did  he 
stand  as  if  the  whole  world  were  resting  on  his  shoulders  ? 

He  made  an  impatient  movement.  "For  Heaven's 
sake,"  he  said  testily,  "tell  those  squalling  children  to 
go!" 

Piers  did  not  stir.     "In  a  moment,  sir!"  he  said. 

And  so,  clear  through  the  night  air,  the  last  verse  came 
unhindered  to  an  end. 

"Our  glad  hosannas,  Prince  of  peace, 
Thy  welcome  shall  proclaim; 
And  Heaven's  eternal  arches  ring 
With  Thy  beloved  Name. 
And  Heaven's  eternal  arches  ring 
With  Thy  beloved  Name." 

Piers  threw  up  his  head  with  a  sudden,  spasmodic  move 
ment  as  of  a  drowning  man.  And  then  without  pause  he 
snatched  up  the  blind  and  flung  the  window  wide. 

"Hi,  you  kiddies!  Where  are  you?  Don't  run  away! 
Gracie,  is  that  you?" 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  then  chirpily  came  the  answer. 
"Pat  did  the  solo;  but  he's  gone.  He  would  have  gone 


io8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

sooner — when  we  saw  your  shadow  on  the  blind — only 
I  held  him  so  that  he  couldn't." 

Piers  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Well,  come  in  now  you  are 
here!  You're  not  afraid  anyhow,  what?" 

"Oh  no!"  laughed  Gracie.  "I'm  not  a  bit  afraid. 
But  I'm  supposed  to  be  in  bed;  and  if  Father  finds  out  I'm 
not — "  She  paused  with  her  customary  sense  of  the 
dramatic. 

"Well?"  laughed  Piers.     "  What'll  happen  then?" 

"I  shall  cop  it,"  said  Gracie  elegantly. 

Nevertheless  she  came  to  him,  and  stood  on  the  grass 
outside  the  window.  The  lamplight  from  within  shone  on 
her  upturned  face  with  its  saucy,  confiding  smile.  Her 
head  was  uncovered  and  gleamed  golden  in  the  radiance. 
She  was  wearing  a  very  ancient  fur  cloak  belonging  to 
her  mother,  and  she  glowed  like  a  rose  in  the  sombre 
drapery. 

Piers  stooped  to  her  with  hands  invitingly  outstretched. 
"Come  along,  Pixie!  We  shan't  eat  you,  and  I'll  take  you 
home  on  my  shoulder  afterwards  and  see  you  don't  get 
copped." 

She  uttered  a  delighted  little  laugh,  and  went  upwards 
into  his  hold  like  a  scrap  of  floating  thistledown. 

He  lifted  her  high  in  his  arms,  crossed  the  room  with  her, 
and  set  her  down  before  the  old  man  who  still  sat  at  the 
table,  sardonically  watching.  "  Miss  Gracie  Lorimer!"  he 
said. 

"Hullo,  child!"  growled  Sir  Beverley. 

Gracie  looked  at  him  with  sparkling,  adventurous  eyes. 
As  she  had  told  Piers,  she  was  not  a  bit  afraid.  After 
the  briefest  pause  she  held  out  her  hand  with  charming 
insouciance. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said. 

Sir  Beverley  slowly  took  the  hand,  and  pulled  her  towards 
him,  gazing  at  her  from  under  his  black  brows  with  a 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  109 

piercing  scrutiny  that  would  have  terrified  a  more  timid 
child. 

Timidity  however  was  not  one  of  Gracie's  weaknesses. 
She  gave  him  a  friendly  smile,  and  waited  without  the 
smallest  sign  of  uneasiness  for  him  to  speak. 

"What  have  you  come  here  for?"  he  demanded  gruffly 
at  length. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Gracie  readily.  She  went  close  to 
him,  confidingly  close,  looking  straight  into  the  formidable 
grey  eyes.  "You  see,  it  was  my  idea.  Pat  didn't  want  to 
come,  but  I  made  him." 

"Forward  young  minx!"  commented  Sir  Beverley. 

Gracie  laughed  at  the  compliment. 

Piers,  smoking  his  cigarette  behind  her,  stood  ready  to 
take  her  part,  but  quite  obviously  she  was  fully  equal  to 
the  occasion. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  agreed,  with  disarming  amiability. 
"But  it  wouldn't  have  mattered  a  bit  if  you  hadn't  found 
out  who  it  was.  You  won't  tell  anyone,  will  you?" 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Sir  Beverley. 

Gracie  pulled  down  her  red  lips,  and  cast  up  her  dancing 
eyes.  "There'd  be  such  a  scandal, "  she  said. 

Piers  broke  into  an  involuntary  laugh,  and  Sir  Beverley's 
thin  lips  twitched  in  a  reluctant  smile. 

"You're  a  saucy  little  baggage!"  he  observed.  "Well, 
get  on!  Let's  hear  what  you've  come  for!  Cadging 
money,  I'll  be  bound." 

Gracie  nodded  in  eager  confirmation  of  this  suggestion. 
"That's  just  it!"  she  said.  "And  that's  where  the  scandal 
would  come  in  if  you  told.  You  see,  poor  children  can  go 
round  squalling  carols  to  their  hearts'  content  for  pennies, 
but  children  like  us  who  want  pennies  just  as  much  haven't 
any  way  of  getting  them.  We  mayn't  carry  hand-bags,  or 
open  carriage-doors,  or  turn  cart-wheels,  or — or  do  anything 
to  earn  a  living.  It's  hard  luck,  yon  know." 


no  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Beastly  shame!"  said  Piers. 

Sir  Beverley  scowled  at  him.  "You  needn't  stick  your 
oar  in.  Go  and  shut  the  window,  do  you  hear?  Now, 
child,  let's  have  the  truth,  so  far  as  any  female  is  capable 
of  speaking  it!  You've  come  here  for  pennies,  you  say. 
Don't  you  know  that's  a  form  of  begging?  And  begging 
is  breaking  the  law." 

"I  often  do  that,"  said  Gracie,  quite  undismayed. 
"So  would  you,  if  you  were  me.  I  expect  you  did  too 
when  you  were  young." 

"I!"  Sir  Beverley  uttered  a  harsh  laugh,  and  released 
the  child's  hand.  "So  you  break  the  law,  do  you?"  he 
said.  "How  often?" 

Gracie's  laugh  followed  his  like  a  silvery  echo.  "I 
shan't  tell  you  'cos  you're  a  magistrate.  But  we  weren't 
really  begging,  Pat  and  I.  At  least  it  wasn't  for  ourselves." 

"Oh,  of  course  not!"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  clear  eyes,  unconscious  of 
irony.  "No.  We  wanted  to  buy  a  pair  of  gloves  for 
someone  for  Christmas.  And  nice  gloves  cost  such  a  lot, 
don't  they?  And  we  hadn't  got  more  than  tenpence- 
halfpenny  among  us.  So  I  said  I'd  think  of  a  plan  to  get 
more.  And — that  was  the  plan,"  ended  Gracie,  with  her 
sweetest  smile. 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  Beverley,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed 
immovably  upon  her.  "And  what  made  you  come 
here?" 

"Oh.  we  came  here  just  because  of  Piers,"  said  Gracie, 
without,  hesitation.  "You  see,  he's  a  great  friend  of  ours." 

"Is  he?"  said  Sir  Beverley.  "And  so  you  think  you'll 
get  what  you  can  out  of  him,  eh?" 

"Sir!"  said  Piers  sharply. 

"Be  quiet,  Piers!"  ordered  his  grandfather  testily. 
"Who  spoke  to  you?  Well,  madam,  continue!  How 
much  do  you  consider  him  good  for?" 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  in 

Piers  pulled  a  coin  impetuously  from  his  pocket  and 
slapped  it  down  on  the  table  in  front  of  Gracie.  "There 
you  are,  Pixie!"  he  said.  "I'm  good  for  that." 

Gracie  stared  at  the  coin  with  widening  eyes,  not  offering 
to  touch  it. 

"Oh,  Piers!"  she  said,  with  a  long  indrawn  breath. 
"It's  a  whole  sovereign!  Oh  no!" 

He  laughed  a  reckless  laugh,  while  over  her  head  his 
eyes  challenged  his  grandfather's.  "That's  all  right, 
Piccaninny,"  he  said  lightly.  "Put  it  in  your  pocket! 
And  I'll  come  round  with  the  car  to-morrow  and  run  you 
into  Wardenhurst  to  buy  those  gloves." 

But  Gracie  shook  her  head.  "Gloves  don't  cost  all 
that, "  she  said  practically.  "And  besides,  you  won't  have 
any  left  for  yourself.  Fancy  giving  away  a  whole  sovereign 
at  a  time!"  She  addressed  Sir  Beverley.  "It  seems 
almost  a  tempting  of  Providence,  doesn't  it!" 

"The  deed  of  a  fool!"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

But  Piers,  with  a  sudden  hardening  of  the  jaw,  stooped 
over  Gracie.  "Take  it!"  he  said.  "I  wish  it." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  "No,  Piers;  I  mustn't  really. 
It's  ever  so  nice  of  you."  She  rubbed  her  golden  head 
against  his  shoulder  caressingly.  "Please  don't  be  cross! 
I  do  thank  you — awfully.  But  I  don't  want  it.  Really, 
I  don't." 

"Rot!"  said  Piers.     "Do  as  I  tell  you!     Take  it!" 

Gracie  turned  to  Sir  Beverley.  "I  can't,  can  I?  Tell 
him  I  can't!" 

But  Piers  was  not  to  be  thwarted.  With  a  sudden  dive 
he  seized  the  coin  and  without  ceremony  swept  Gracie's 
hair  from  her  shoulders  and  dropped  it  down  the  back  of 
her  neck. 

"There!"  he  said,  slipping  his  hands  over  her  arms  and 
holding  her  while  she  squealed  and  writhed.  "It's  quite 
beyond  reach.  You  can't  in  decency  return  it  now.  It's 


ii2  The  Bars  of  Iron 

no  good  wriggling.  You  won't  get  it  up  again  unless  you 
stand  on  your  head." 

"You're  horrid — horrid!"  protested  Grade;  but  she 
reached  back  and  kissed  him  notwithstanding.  "Thank 
you  ever  so  much.  I  hope  I  shan't  lose  it.  But  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  with  it  all.  It's  quite  dreadful  to 
think  of.  Please  don't  be  cross  with  him!"  she  said  to 
Sir  Beverley.  "  It's— awfully— kind." 

Sir  Beverley  smiled  sardonically.  "And  whom  are  the 
gloves  for?  Some  other  kind  youth?" 

"Oh  no!"  she  laughed.  "Only  Aunt  Avery.  She  tore 
hers  all,  to  bits  this  afternoon.  I  expect  it  was  over  a  dog 
fight  or  something,  but  she  wouldn't  tell  us  what.  They 
were  nice  gloves  too.  She  isn't  a  bit  rich,  but  she  always 
wears  nice  gloves." 

"Being  a  woman!"  growled  Sir  Beverley. 

"Don't  you  like  women?"  asked  Gracie  sympathetically. 
"I  like  men  best  too  as  a  rule.  But  Aunt  Avery  is  so 
very  sweet.  No  one  could  help  loving  her,  could  they, 
Piers?" 

"Have  an  orange!"  said  Piers,  pulling  the  dish  towards 
him. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  I  mustn't  stop."  Gracie  turned  to 
Sir  Beverley  and  lifted  her  bright  face.  "Good-bye! 
Thank  you  for  being  so  kind." 

There  was  no  irony  in  her  thanks,  and  even  he  could 
scarcely  refuse  the  friendly  offer  of  her  lips.  He  stooped 
and  grimly  received  her  farewell  salute  on  his  cheek. 

Piers  loaded  her  with  as  many  oranges  as  she  could  carry, 
and  they  finally  departed  through  the  great  hall  which 
Gracie  surveyed  with  eyes  of  reverent  admiration. 

"It's  as  big  as  a  church,"  she  said,  in  an  awed  whisper. 

Sir  Beverley  followed  them  to  the  front-door,  and  saw 
them  out  into  the  night.  Gracie  waved  an  ardent  farewell 
from  her  perch  on  Piers'  shoulder,  and  he  heard  the  merry 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  1*13 

childish  laugh  more  than  once  after  they  had  passed  from 
sight. 

The  night  air  was  chilly,  and  he  turned  inwards  at  length 
with  an  inarticulate  growl,  and  shut  the  door. 

Heavily  he  tramped  across  to  the  old  carved  settle  before 
the  fire,  and  dropped  down  upon  it,  his  whole  bearing 
expressive  of  utter  weariness. 

David  came  in  with  stealthy  footfall  and  softly 
replenished  the  fire. 

"Shall  I  bring  the  coffee,  Sir  Beverley?"  he  asked  him. 

" No, "  said  Sir  Beverley.     "I'll  ring." 

And  David  effaced  himself  without  sound. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  Sir  Beverley  still  sat  there 
motionless  as  a  statue,  with  thin  lips  drawn  in  a  single  bitter 
line,  and  eyes  that  gazed  aloofly  at  the  fire.  The  silence 
was  intense.  The  hall  seemed  desolate  as  a  vault.  Over 
in  a  corner  a  grandfather's  clock  ticked  the  seconds  away 
— slowly,  monotonously,  as  though  very  weary  of  its  task. 

Suddenly  in  the  distance  there  came  a  faint  sound,  the 
opening  of  a  door;  and  a  breath  of  night-air,  pure  and  cold, 
blew  in  across  the  stillness.  In  a  moment  there  followed 
a  light,  elastic  step,  and  Piers  came  into  view  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall.  He  moved  swiftly  as  though  he  trod  air. 
His  head  was  thrown  back,  his  face  rapt  and  intent  as 
though  he  saw  a  vision.  He  did  not  see  the  lonely  figure 
sitting  there  before  the  hearth,  but  turned  aside  ere  he 
neared  it  and  entered  an  unlighted  room,  shutting  himself 
gently  in. 

Again  the  silence  descended,  but  only  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then  softly  it  was  dispelled,  as  through  it  there  stole  the 
tender,  passionate-sweet  harmonies  of  a  Chopin  nocturne. 

At  the  first  note  Sir  Beverley  started,  almost  winced  as 
at  the  sudden  piercing  of  a  nerve.  Then  as  the  music 
continued,  he  leaned  rigidly  back  again  and  became  as 
still  as  before. 


H4  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Very  softly  the  music  thrilled  through  the  silence.  It 
might  have  come  from  somewhere  very  far  away.  There 
was  something  almost  unearthly  about  it,  a  depth  and  a 
mystery  that  seemed  to  spread  as  it  were  invisible  wings, 
filling  the  place  with  dim  echoes  of  the  Divine. 

It  died  away  at  last  into  a  silence  like  the  hush  of  prayer. 
And  then  the  still  figure  of  the  old  man  before  the  fire 
became  suddenly  vitalized.  He  sat  up  abruptly  and 
seized  with  impatience  a  small  hand-bell  from  the  table 
beside  him. 

David  made  his  discreet  appearance  with  the  coffee  almost 
at  the  first  tinkle. 

"Coffee!"  his  master  flung  at  him.  "And  fetch  Master 
Piers!" 

David  set  down  the  tray  at  his  master's  elbow,  and 
turned  to  obey  the  second  behest.  But  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room  opened  ere  he  reached  it,  and  Piers  came 
out.  His  dark  eyes  were  shining.  He  whistled  softly  as  he 
came. 

David  stood  respectfully  on  one  side,  and  Piers  passed 
him  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  came  to  his  grandfather, 
and  threw  himself  on  to  the  settle  by  his  side  in  silence. 

"Well?"  said  Sir  Beverley.  "You  took  that  chattering 
monkey  back,  I  suppose?" 

Piers  started  and  seemed  to  awake.  "Oh  yes,  I  got  her 
safely  home.  We  had  to  dodge  the  Reverend  Stephen. 
But  it  was  all  right.  She  and  the  boy  got  in  without  being 
caught." 

He  stirred  his  coffee  thoughtfully,  and  fell  silent  again. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Sir  Beverley  abruptly. 

Piers  looked  up,  meeting  the  hard  grey  eyes  with  the 
memory  of  his  dream  still  lingering  in  his  own. 

Slowly  the  dream  melted.  He  began  to  smile.  "I 
think  I'd  better,"  he  said.  "I'm  infernally  sleepy,  and 
it's  getting  late."  He  drank  off  his  coffee  and  rose.  "You 


A  Pair  of  Gloves  115 

must  be  pretty  tired  yourself,  sir,"  he  remarked.  "Time 
you  trotted  to  bed  too." 

He  moved  round  to  the  back  of  the  settle  and  paused, 
looking  down  at  the  thick  white  hair  with  a  curious 
expression  of  hesitancy  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  go  on!  Go  on!"  said  Sir  Beverley  irritably. 
"What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

Piers  stooped  impulsively  in  response,  his  hand  on  the  old 
man's  shoulder,  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Good-night,  sir!"  he  said  softly. 

The  action  was  purely  boyish.  It  pleaded  for  tolerance. 
Sir  Beverley  jerked  his  head  impatiently,  but  he  did  not 
repulse  him. 

"There!  Be  off  with  you!"  he  said.  "Go  to  bed  and 
behave  yourself!  Good-night,  you  scamp!  Good-night!" 

And  Piers  went  from  him  lightfooted,  a  smile  upon  his 
lips.  He  knew  that  his  tacit  overture  for  peace  had  beer 
accepted  for  the  time  at  least. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    VISION 

IT  was  growing  very  dark  in  the  little  church,  almost  too 
dark  to  see  the  carving  of  the  choir-stalls,  and  Avery 
gave  a  short  sigh  of  weariness. 

She  had  so  nearly  finished  her  task  that  she  had  sent  the 
children  in  to  prepare  for  tea,  declaring  that  she  would 
follow  them  in  five  minutes,  and  then  just  at  the  last  a 
whole  mass  of  ivy  and  holly,  upon  which  the  boys  had  been 
at  work,  had  slipped  and  strewn  the  chancel-floor.  She  was 
the  only  one  left  in  the  church,  and  it  behooved  her  to 
remove  the  litter.  It  had  been  a  hard  day,  and  she  was 
frankly  tired  of  the  very  sight  and  smell  of  the  evergreens. 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  however.  The  chancel  must 
be  made  tidy  before  she  could  go,  and  she  went  to  the  cup 
board  under  the  belfry  for  the  dustpan  and  brush  which 
the  sexton's  wife  kept  there.  She  found  a  candle  also, 
and  thus  armed  she  returned  to  the  scene  of  her  labours 
at  the  other  end  of  the  dim  little  church.  She  tried  to  put 
her  customary  energy  into  the  task,  but  it  would  not  rise 
to  the  occasion,  and  after  a  few  strenuous  seconds  she 
paused  to  rest. 

It  was  very  still  and  peaceful,  and  she  was  glad  of  the 
solitude.  All  day  long  she  had  felt  the  need  of  it,  and 
all  day  long  it  had  been  denied  her.  She  had  been  decorat 
ing  under  Miss  Whalley's  superintendence,  and  the  task 
had  been  no  light  one.  Save  for  the  fact  that  she  had  gone 

M6 


The  Vision  117 

in  Mrs.  Lorimer's  stead,  she  had  scarcely  undertaken  it. 
For  Miss  Whalley  was  as  exacting  as  though  the  church 
were  her  own  private  property.  She  deferred  to  the  Vicar 
alone,  and  he  was  more  than  willing  to  leave  the  matter 
in  her  hands.  "My  capable  assistant"  was  his  pet  name 
for  this  formidable  member  of  his  flock,  and  very  con 
scientiously  did  Miss  Whalley  maintain  her  calling.  She 
would  have  preferred  to  direct  Mrs.  Lorimer  rather  than  the 
mother's  help,  but  since  the  latter  had  firmly  determined 
to  take  the  former's  place,  she  had  accepted  her  with 
condescension  and  allotted  to  her  all  the  hardest  work. 

Avery  had  laboured  uncomplainingly  in  her  quiet, 
methodical  fashion,  but  now  that  the  stress  was  over  and 
Miss  Whalley  safely  installed  in  the  Vicarage  drawing- 
room  for  tea,  she  found  it  impossible  not  to  relax  somewhat, 
and  to  make  the  most  of  those  few  exquisite  moments 
of  sanctuary. 

She  was  very  far  from  expecting  any  invasion  of  her 
solitude,  and  when  after  a  moment  or  two  she  went  on  with 
her  sweeping  she  had  no  suspicion  of  another  presence  in 
the  dark  building.  She  had  set  herself  resolutely  to  finish 
her  task,  and  so  energetic  was  she  that  she  heard  no  sound 
of  feet  along  the  aisle  behind  her. 

Some  unaccountable  impulse  induced  her  to  pause  at 
length  and  still  kneeling,  brush  in  hand,  to  throw  a  back 
ward  glance  along  the  nave.  Then  it  was  that  she  saw  a 
man's  figure  standing  on  the  chancel-steps,  and  so  un 
expected  was  the  apparition .  that  her  weary  nerves  leapt 
with  violence  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  event,  and  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  startled  cry  that  echoed  weirdly 
through  the  empty  place.  Then  with  a  rush  of  self -ridicule 
she  recognized  Piers  Evesham.  "Oh,  it  is  you!"  she  said. 
"How  stupid  of  me!" 

He  came  straight  to  her  with  an  air  of  determination 
that  would  brook  no  opposition  and  took  the  brush  out  of 


n8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

her  hand.  "That's  not  your  job,"  he  said.  "You  gv. 
and  sit  down!" 

She  stared  at  him  in  silence,  trying  to  still  the  wild 
agitation  that  his  unlooked-for  coming  had  raised  in  her. 
He  was  wearing  a  heavy  motor-coat,  but  he  divested  him 
self  of  this,  and  without  further  parley  bent  himself  to  the 
task  of  which  he  had  deprived  her. 

Avery  sat  down  somewhat  limply  on  the  pulpit-stairs 
and  watched  him.  He  was  very  thorough  and  far  brisker 
than  she  could  have  been.  In  a  very  few  minutes  the 
litter  was  all  collected,  and  Piers  turned  round  and  looked 
back  at  her  across  the  dim  chancel. 

"Feeling  better?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  "What  made  you  come  in 
like  that?"  she  asked. 

He  replied  to  the  question  with  absolute  simplicity. 
"I've  just  brought  Gracie  home  again.  She  asked  me  to 
tea  in  the  schoolroom,  but  you  weren't  there,  and  they  said 
I  should  find  you  here,  so  I  came  to  fetch  you." 

He  moved  slowly  across  and  stood  before  her,  looking 
down  into  her  tired  eyes  with  an  odd  species  of  relentless- 
ness  in  his  own. 

"It's  an  infernal  shame  that  you  should  work  so  hard!" 
he  said,  with  sudden  resentment.  "You're  looking  fagged 
to  death." 

Avery  smiled  a  little.     "I  like  hard  work,"  she  said. 

"Not  such  as  this!"  said  Piers.  "It  isn't  fit  for  you. 
Why  can't  the  lazy  hound  do  it  himself?" 

Her  smile  passed.  "Hush,  Piers!"  she  said.  "Not 
here!" 

He  glanced  towards  the  altar,  and  she  thought  a  shade 
of  reverence  came  into  his  face  for  a  moment.  But  he 
turned  to  her  again  immediately  with  his  flashing,  boyish 
-smile. 

"Well,  it  isn't  good  for  you  to  overwork,  you  know, 


The  Vision  119 

A  very.  I  hate  to  think  of  it.  And  you  have  no  one  to 
take  care  of  you  and  see  you  don't." 

Avery  got  up  slowly.  Her  own  face  was  severe  in  the 
candlelight,  but  before  she  could  speak  he  went  lightly  on. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play  you  something  before  we 
go?  Or  are  you  too  tired  to  blow?  It's  rather  a  shame  to 
suggest  it.  But  it's  such  a  grand  opportunity." 

Avery  turned  at  once  to  the  organ  with  a  feeling  of 
relief.  As  usual  she  found  it  very  hard  to  rebuke  him  as 
he  deserved. 

"Yes,  I  will  blow  for  you,"  she  said.  "But  it  must  be 
something  short,  for  we  ought  to  be  going." 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  blow. 

Piers  took  his  place  at  once  at  the  organ.  It  was  charac 
teristic  of  him  that  he  never  paused  for  inspiration.  His 
fingers  moved  over  the  keys  as  it  were  by  instinct,  and  in  a 
few  moments  Avery  forgot  that  she  was  tired  and  dispirited 
with  the  bearing  of  many  burdens,  forgot  all  the  problems 
and  difficulties  of  life,  forgot  even  her  charges  at  the  Vicarage 
and  the  waiting  schoolroom  tea,  and  sat  wrapt  as  it  were 
in  a  golden  mist  of  delight,  watching  the  slow  spreading  of 
a  dawn  such  as  she  had  never  seen  even  in  her  dreams. 
What  he  played  she  knew  not,  and  yet  the  music  was  not 
wholly  unfamiliar  to  her.  It  waked  within  her  soul  har 
monies  that  vibrated  in  throbbing  response.  He  spoke 
to  her  in  a  language  that  she  knew.  And  as  the  magic 
moments  passed,  the  wonderful  dawn  so  grew  and  deepened 
that  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  pain,  all  sorrow,  had  fallen 
utterly  away,  and  she  stood  on  the  threshold  of  a  new 
world. 

Wider  and  wider  spread  the  glory.  There  came  to  her 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  greatness  about  to  be  revealed. 
She  became  strung  to  a  pitch  of  expectancy  that  was 
almost  anguish,  while  the  music  swelled  and  swelled  like 
the  distant  coming  of  a  vast  procession  as  yet  unseen. 


120  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  stood  as  it  were  on  a  mountain-top  before  the  closed 
gates  of  heaven,  waiting  for  the  moment  of  revelation. 

It  came.  Just  when  she  felt  that  she  could  bear  no 
more,  just  when  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart  seemed  as 
if  it  would  choke  her,  the  music  changed,  became  suddenly 
all-conquering,  a  paean  of  triumph,  and  the  gates  swung 
back  before  her  eager  eyes. 

In  spirit  she  entered  the  Holy  Place,  and  the  same  hand 
that  had  admitted  her  lifted  for  her  the  last  great  Veil. 
For  one  moment  of  unutterable  rapture  such  as  no  poor 
palpitating  mortal  body  could  endure  for  long,  the  vision 
was  her  own.  She  saw  Heaven  opened.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  Veil  descended,  and  the  Gates  closed. 
She  came  down  from  the  mountain-top,  leaving  the  golden 
dawn  very  far  behind  her.  She  opened  her  eyes  in  darkness 
and  silence. 

Someone  was  bending  over  her.  She  felt  warm  hands 
about  her  own.  She  heard  a  voice,  sudden  and  imploring, 
close  to  her. 

"A very!  Avery  darling!  For  God's  sake,  dear,  speak 
tome!  What  is  it?  Are  you  ill?" 

"111!"  she  said,  bewildered. 

His  hands  gripped  hers  impetuously.  "You  gave  me 
such  a  fright,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you'd  fainted.  Did 
you  faint?" 

"Of  course  not ! "  she  said  slowly.  " I  never  faint.  Why 
did  you  stop  playing?" 

"I  didn't,"  said  Piers.     "At  least,  you  stopped  first." 

"Oh,  did  I  forget  to  blow?"  she  said.     "I'm  sorry." 

She  knew  that  she  ought  not  to  suffer  that  close  clasp 
of  his,  but  somehow  for  the  moment  she  was  powerless  to 
resist  it.  She  sat  quite  still,  gazing  out  before  her  with  a 
curious  sense  of  powerlessness. 

"You're  tired  out,"  said  Piers  softly.  "  It  was  a  shame  tc 
keep  you  here.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  dear." 


The  Vision  121 

She  stirred  at  that,  beginning  to  seek  for  freedom. 
"Don't,  Piers!"  she  said.  "It — it  isn't  right  of  you.  It 
isn't  fair." 

He  knelt  swiftly  down  before  her.  His  voice  came 
quick  and  passionate  in  answer.  "It  can't  be  wrong  to 
love  you, "  he  said.  "And  you  will  never  be  any  the  worse 
for  my  love.  Let  me  love  you,  A  very !  Let  me  love  you! " 

The  words  rushed  out  tempestuously.  His  forehead  was 
bowed  upon  her  hands.  He  became  silent,  and  through 
the  silence  she  heard  his  breathing,  hard  and  difficult, — 
the  breathing  of  a  man  who  faces  stupendous  odds. 

With  an  effort  she  summoned  her  strength.  Yet  she 
could  not  speak  harshly  to  him,  for  her  heart  went  out  in 
pity.  "No,  you  mustn't,  Piers,"  she  said.  "You  mustn't 
indeed.  I  am  years  older  than  you  are,  and  it  is  utterly 
unsuitable.  You  must  forget  it.  You  must  indeed. 
There!  Let  us  be  friends!  I  like  you  well  enough  for 
that." 

He  uttered  a  laugh  that  sounded  as  though  it  covered  a 
groan.  "Yes,  you're  awfully  good  to  me, "  he  said.  "But 
you're  not — in  one  sense — anything  approaching  my  age, 
and  pray  Heaven  you  never  will  be!" 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  "And  you're 
not  angry  with  me?"  he  said,  half  wistfully. 

No,  she  was  not  angry.  She  could  not  even  pretend  to 
be.  "But  please  be  sensible!"  she  begged.  "I  know  it 
was  partly  my  fault.  If  I  hadn't  been  so  tired,  it  wouldn't 
have  happened." 

He  got  to  his  feet,  still  holding  her  hands.  "No;  you're 
not  to  blame  yourself,"  he  said.  "What  has  happened 
was  bound  to  happen,  right  from  the  very  beginning. 
But  I'm  sorry  if  it  has  upset  you.  There  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  that  I  can  see.  You  are  better  now?" 

He  helped  her  gently  to  rise.  They  stood  face  to  face 
in  the  dim  candlelight,  and  his  eyes  looked  into  hers  with 


122  The  Bars  of  Iron 

such  friendly  concern  that  again  she  had  it  not  in  her 
heart  to  be  other  than  kind. 

"I  am  quite  well,"  she  assured  him.  "Please  forget 
my  foolishness!  Tell  me  what  it  was  you  played  just 
now!" 

"That  last  thing?"  he  said.  "Surely  you  know  that! 
It  was  Handel's  Largo.'1 

She  started.  "Of  course!  I  remember  now!  But — • 
I've  never  heard  it  played  like  that  before." 

A  very  strange  smile  crossed  his  face.  "No  one  but  you 
would  have  understood,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  you  to  hear 
it— like  that." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  his.  Something  in  his 
words  sent  a  curious  feeling  that  was  almost  dread 
through  her  heart. 

"I  don't — quite — know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"Don't  you?"  said  Piers,  and  in  his  voice  there  rang  a 
note  of  recklessness.  "It's  a  difficult  thing  to  put  into 
words,  isn't  it?  I  just  wanted  you  to  see  the  Open  Heaven 
as  I  have  seen  it — and  as  I  shall  never  see  it  again." 

"Piers!"  she  said. 

He  answered  her  almost  fiercely.  "No,  you  won't 
understand.  Of  course  you  can't  understand.  You  will 
never  stand  hammering  at  the  bars,  breaking  your  heart 
in  the  dark.  Wasn't  that  the  sort  of  picture  our  kindly 
parson  drew  for  us  on  Sunday?  It's  a  pretty  theme — 
the  tortures  of  the  damned!" 

"My  dear  Piers!"  A  very  spoke  quickly  and  vehemently. 
"Surely  you  have  too  much  sense  to  take  such  a  discourse 
as  that  seriously!  I  longed  to  tell  the  children  not  to 
listen.  It  is  wicked — wicked — to  try  to  spread  spiritual 
terror  in  people's  hearts,  and  to  call  it  the  teaching  of 
religion.  It  is  no  more  like  religion  than  a  penny-terrible 
is  like  life.  It  is  a  cruel  and  fantastic  distortion  of  the 
truth." 


The  Vision  123 

She  paused.  Piers  was  listening  to  her  with  that  odd 
hunger  in  his  eyes  that  had  looked  out  of  them  the  night 
before. 

"You  don't  believe  in  hell  then?"  he  said  quietly,  after  a 
moment. 

"As  a  place  of  future  torment — no!"  she  said.  "The 
only  real  hell  is  here  on  earth — here  in  our  hearts  when 
we  fall  away  from  God.  Hell  is  the  state  of  sin  and  all 
that  goes  with  it — the  fiery  hell  of  the  spirit.  It  is  here  and 
now.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Can  you  imagine  a 
God  of  Love  devising  hideous  tortures  hereafter,  for  the 
punishment  of  the  pigmies  who  had  offended  Him?  Tor 
tures  that  v/ere  never  to  do  them  any  good,  but  just  to 
keep  them  in  misery  for  ever  and  ever?  It  is  unthinkable 
— it's  almost  ludicrous.  What  is  the  good  of  suffering 
except  to  purify?  That  we  can  understand  and  thank 
God  for.  But  the  other — oh,  the  other  is  sheer  imagery, 
more  mythical  than  Jonah  and  the  whale.  It  just  doesn't 
go."  Again  she  paused,  then  very  frankly  held  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "  But  I  like  your  picture  of  the  Open  Heaven, 
Piers,"  she  said.  "Show  it  me  again  some  day — when 
I'm  not  as  tired  and  stupid  as  I  am  to-day." 

He  bent  over  her  hand  with  a  gesture  that  betrayed  the 
foreign  blood  in  him,  and  his  lips,  hot  and  passionate, 
pressed  her  cold  fingers.  He  did  not  utter  a  word.  Only 
when  he  stood  up  again  he  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that 
burned  with  the  deep  fires  of  manhood,  and  suddenly  all- 
unbidden  the  woman's  heart  in  her  quivered  in  response. 
She  bent  her  head  and  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  MAN'S  CONFIDENCE 

"    A  REN'T  you  going  to   kiss  Aunt  Avery  under  the 
/l  mistletoe?"  asked  Grade. 

"No,"  said  Piers.  "Aunt  Avery  may  kiss  me  if  she 
likes."  He  looked  at  Avery  with  his  sudden,  boyish  laugh. 
"But  I  know  she  doesn't  like,  so  that's  an  end  of  the 
matter." 

"How  do  you  know?"  persisted  Grade.  "She's  very 
fond  of  kissing.  And  anyone  may  kiss  under  the  mistletoe." 

"That  quite  does  away  with  the  charm  of  it  in  my 
opinion,"  dedared  Piers.  "I  don't  appredate  things 
when  you  can  get  'em  cheap." 

He  moved  over  to  Jeanie's  sofa  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge.  Her  soft  eyes  smiled  a  welcome,  the  little  thin  hand 
slipped  into  his. 

"I've  been  wishing  for  you  all  day  long, "  she  said. 

He  leaned  towards  her.  "Have  you,  my  fairy  queen? 
Well,  I'm  here  at  last." 

Avery,  from  the  head  of  the  schoolroom  table,  looked 
across  at  them  with  a  feeling  of  fulness  at  her  heart.  She 
never  liked  Piers  so  well  as  when  she  saw  him  in  company 
with  her  little  favourite.  His  gentleness  and  chivalry 
made  of  him  a  very  perfect  knight. 

"Yes,"  said  Jeanie,  giving  his  hand  a  little  squeeze. 
"We're  going  to  have  our  Christmas  Tree  to-night,  and 
Dr.  Tudor  is  coming.  You  don't  like  him,  I  know.  But 
he's  really  quite  a  nice  man." 

124 


A  Man's  Confidence  125 

She  spoke  the  last  words  pleadingly,  in  response  to  a 
slight  frown  between  Piers'  brows. 

"Oh,  is  he?"  said  Piers,  without  enthusiasm. 

"He's  been  very  kind, "  said  Jeanie  in  a  tone  of  apology. 

"He'd  better  be  anything  else — to  you!"  said  Piers,  with 
a  smile  that  was  somewhat  grim. 

Jeanie's  fingers  caressed  his  again  propitiatingly.  "Do 
let's  all  be  nice  to  each  other  just  for  to-night!"  she  said. 

Piers'  smile  became  tender  again.  "As  your  gracious 
majesty  decrees!"  he  said.  "Where  is  the  ceremony  to 
beheld?" 

"Up  in  the  nursery.  We've  had  the  little  ones  in  here 
all  day,  while  Mother  and  Nurse  have  been  getting  it  ready. 
I  haven't  seen  it  yet." 

"Can't  we  creep  up  when  no  one's  looking  and  have  a 
private  view?"  suggested  Piers. 

Jeanie  beamed  at  the  idea.  "I  would  like  to,  for  I've 
been  in  the  secret  from  the  very  beginning.  But  you  must 
finish  your  tea  first.  We'll  go  when  the  crackers  begin." 

As  the  pulling  of  crackers  was  the  signal  for  every  child 
at  the  table  to  make  as  much  noise  as  possible,  it  was  not 
difficult  to  effect  their  retreat  without  exciting  general 
attention.  Avery  alone  noted  their  departure  and  smiled 
at  Jeanie's  flushed  face  as  the  child  nodded  farewell  to  her 
over  Piers'  shoulder. 

"You  do  carry  me  so  beautifully,"  Jeanie  confided  to 
him  as  he  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  top  of  the  house.  "I 
love  the  feel  of  your  arms.  They  are  so  strong  and  kind. 
You're  sure  I'm  not  too  heavy?" 

"I  could  carry  a  dozen  of  you, "  said  Piers. 

They  found  the  nursery  brilliantly  lighted  and  lavishly 
adorned  with  festoons  of  coloured  paper. 

"Aunt  Avery  and  I  did  most  of  that,"  said  Jeanie 
proudly. 

Piers  bore  her  round  the  room,  admiring  every  detail, 


126  The  Bars  of  Iron 

finally  depositing  her  in  a  big  arm-chair  close  to  the  tall 
screen  that  hid  the  Christmas  Tree.  Jeanie's  leg  was 
mending  rapidly,  and  gave  her  little  trouble  now.  She 
lay  back  contentedly,  with  shining  eyes  upon  her 
cavalier. 

"It  was  very  nice  of  you  to  be  so  kind  to  Gracie  last 
night,"  she  said.  "She  told  me  all  about  it  to-day.  Of 
course  she  ought  not  to  have  done  it.  I  hope — I  hope  Sir 
Beverley  wasn't  angry  about  it." 

Piers  laughed  a  little.  "Oh  no!  He  got  over  it.  Was 
Gracie  scared?" 

"  Not  really.  She  said  she  thought  he  wasn't  quite  pleased 
with  you.  I  do  hope  he  didn't  think  it  was  your  fault." 

"My  shoulders  are  fairly  broad,"  said  Piers. 

"Yes,  but  it  wouldn't  be  right,"  maintained  Jeanie. 
"I  think  I  ought  to  write  to  him  and  explain." 

"No,  no!"  said  Piers.  "You  leave  the  old  chap  alone. 
He  understands — quite  as  much  as  he  wants  to  understand." 

There  was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  his  voice  which  Jeanie 
was  quick  to  discern.  She  reached  up  a  sympathetic 
hand  to  his.  "Dear  Sir  Galahad!"  she  said  softly. 

Piers  looked  down  at  her  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 
And  then,  very  suddenly,  moved  by  the  utter  devotion 
that  looked  back  at  him  from  her  eyes,  he  went  down  on 
his  knees  beside  her  and  held  her  to  his  heart. 

"It's  a  beast  of  a  world,  Jeanie, "  he  said. 

"Is  it?"  whispered  Jeanie,  with  his  hand  pressed  tight 
against  her  cheek. 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  little  space;  then 
she  lifted  her  face  to  his,  to  murmur  in  a  motherly  tone, 
"I  expect  you're  tired." 

"Tired!"  said  Piers  with  gloomy  vehemence.  "Yes, 
I  am  tired — sick  to  death  of  everything.  I'm  like  a  dog 
on  a  chain.  I  can  see  what  I  want,  but  it's  always  just  out 
.of  my  reach." 


A  Man's  Confidence  127 

Jeanie's  hand  came  up  and  softly  stroked  his  face.  "I 
wish  I  could  get  it  for  you,"  she  said. 

"Bless  you,  sweetheart!"  said  Piers.  "You  don't  so 
much  as  know  what  it  is,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Jeanie.  She  leaned  her  head  back 
against  his  shoulder,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  all  her 
child's  soul  shining  in  her  eyes.  "It's — Aunt  Avery;  isn't 
it?" 

"How  did  you  know?"  said  Piers. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jeanie.  "It  just — came  to  me — 
that  day  in  the  schoolroom  when  you  talked  about  the 
ticket  of  leave,  You  were  unhappy  that  day,  weren't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Piers.  He  added  after  a  moment,  "You  see, 
I'm  not  good  enough  for  her." 

"Not  good  enough!"  Jeanie's  face  became  incredulous 
and  a  little  distressed.  "I'm  sure — she — doesn't  think 
that,"  she  said. 

"She  doesn't  know  me  properly,"  said  Piers.  "Nor 
do  you.  If  you  did,  you'd  be  shocked, — you'd  be  horrified." 

He  spoke  recklessly,  almost  defiantly;  but  Jeanie  only 
stretched  up  a  thin  arm  and  wound  it  about  his  neck. 
"Never!"  she  told  him  softly.  "No,  never!" 

He  held  her  to  him;  but  he  would  not  be  silenced.  "I 
assure  you,  I'm  no  saint,"  he  said.  "I  feel  more  like  a 
devil  sometimes.  I've  done  bad  things,  Jeanie,  I  can't 
tell  you  how  bad.  It  would  only  hurt  you." 

The  words  ran  out  impulsively.  His  breathing  came 
quick  and  short;  his  hold  was  tense.  In  that  moment  the 
child's  pure  spirit  recognized  that  the  image  had  crumbled 
in  her  shrine,  but  the  brave  heart  of  her  did  not  flinch. 
Very  tenderly  she  veiled  the  ruin.  The  element  of  worship 
had  vanished  in  that  single  instant  of  revelation;  but  her 
love  remained,  and  it  shone  out  to  him  like  a  beacon  as  he 
knelt  there  in  abasement  by  her  side. 


128  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"But  you're  sorry,"  she  whispered.  "You  would  undo 
the  bad  things  if  you  could." 

"God  knows  I  would!"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  He  will  undo  them  for  you,"  she  murmured 
softly.  "Have  you  asked  Him?" 

"There  are  some  things  that  can't  be  undone,"  groaned 
Piers.  "  It  would  be  too  big  a  job  even  for  Him." 

"Nothing  is  that,"  said  Jeanie  with  conviction.  "If 
we  are  sorry  and  if  we  pray,  some  day  He  will  undo  all  the 
bad  we've  ever  done." 

"I  haven't  prayed  for  six  years,"  said  Piers.  "Things 
went  wrong  with  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  under  a  curse. 
And  I  gave  it  up." 

"Oh,  Piers!"  she  said,  holding  him  closer.  "How 
miserable  you  must  have  been!" 

"I've  been  in  hell!"  he  said  with  bitter  vehemence. 
"And  the  gates  tight  shut!  Not  that  I  was  ever  very 
great  in  the  spiritual  lines,"  he  added  more  calmly.  "But 
I  used  to  think  God  took  a  friendly  interest  in  my  affairs 
till — till  I  went  down  into  hell  and  the  gates  shut  on  me; 
and  then — "  he  spoke  grimly — "I  knew  He  didn't  care  a 
rap." 

"But,  dear,  He  does  care!"  said  Jeanie  very  earnestly. 

"He  doesn't!"  said  Piers  moodily.     "He  can't!" 

"Piers,  He  does!"  She  raised  her  head  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.  "Everyone  feels  like  that  sometimes, " 
she  said.  "But  Aunt  Avery  says  it's  only  because  we  are 
too  little  to  understand.  Won't  you  begin  and  pray  again? 
It  does  make  a  difference  even  though  we  can't  see  it." 

"  I  can't, "  said  Piers.  And  then  with  swift  compunction 
he  kissed  her  face  of  disappointment.  "Never  mind,  my 
queen!  Don't  you  bother  your  little  head  about  me!  I 
shall  rub  along  all  right  even  if  I  don't  come  out  on  top." 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  happy,"  said  Jeanie.  "I  wish  I 
could  help  you,  Piers, — dear  Piers." 


A  Man's  Confidence  129 

"You  do  help  me,"  said  Piers. 

There  came  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  stairs,  and  he  got 
up. 

Jeanie  looked  up  at  him  wistfully.  "I  shall  try,"  she 
said.  "I  shall  try— hard." 

He  patted  her  head  and  turned  away. 

Mr.  Lorimer  and  Miss  Whalley  entered  the  room.  The 
former  raised  his  brows  momentarily  at  the  sight  of  Piers, 
but  he  greeted  him  with  much  geniality. 

"I  am  quite  delighted  to  welcome  you  to  the  children's 
Christmas  party,"  he  declared,  with  Piers'  hand  held 
impressively  in  his.  "And  how  is  your  grandfather,  my 
dear  lad?" 

Piers  contracted  instinctively.  "He  is  quite  well, 
thanks, "  he  said.  "  I  haven't  come  to  stay.  I  only  looked 
in  for  a  moment." 

He  glanced  towards  Miss  Whalley  whom  he  had  never 
met  before.  The  Vicar  smilingly  introduced  him.  "This 
is  the  Squire's  grandson  and  heir,  Miss  Whalley.  Doubt 
less  you  know  him  by  sight  as  well  as  by  repute — the  keen 
est  sportsman  in  the  county,  eh,  my  young  friend?"  His 
eyes  disappeared  with  the  words  as  if  pulled  inwards  by  a 
string. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Piers,  becoming  extremely  blunt 
and  British.  "I'm  certainly  keen,  but  so  are  dozens  of 
others."  He  bowed  to  Miss  Whalley  with  stiff  courtesy. 
"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  he  said  formally. 

Miss  Whalley  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
severe  air  of  incredulity.  She  had  never  approved  of 
Piers  since  a  certain  Sunday  morning  ten  years  before  when 
she  had  caught  him  shooting  at  the  choir-boys  with  a 
catapult,  during  the  litany,  over  the  top  of  the  squire's 
large  square  pew. 

She  had  reported  the  crime  to  the  Vicar,  and  the  Vicar 
had  lodged  a  formal  complaint  with  Sir  Beverley,  who  had 


130  The  Bars  of  Iron 

soundly  caned  the  delinquent  in  his  presence,  and  given 
him  half  a  sovereign  as  soon  as  the  clerical  back  had  been 
turned  for  taking  the  punishment  like  a  man. 

But  in  Miss  Whalley's  eyes  Piers  had  from  that  moment 
ceased  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  elect,  and  his  curt 
reception  of  the  good  Vicar's  patronage  did  not  further 
elevate  him  in  her  esteem.  She  made  as  brief  a  response 
to  the  introduction  as  politeness  demanded,  and  crossed 
the  room  to  Jeanie. 

''I  must  be  off,"  said  Piers.  "I've  stayed  longer  than 
I  intended  already." 

"Pray  do  not  hurry!"  urged  Mr.  Lorimer.  "The 
festivities  are  but  just  beginning." 

But  Piers  was  insistent,  and  even  Jeanie's  wistful  eyes 
could  not  detain  him.  He  waved  her  a  careless  farewell, 
and  extricated  himself  as  quickly  as  possible  from  sur 
roundings  that  had  become  uncongenial. 

Descending  the  stairs  somewhat  precipitately,  he  nearly 
ran  into  Avery  ascending  with  a  troop  of  children,  and 
stopped  to  say  good-bye. 

"You're  not  going!"  cried  Gracie,  with  keen  disappoint 
ment. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  can't  stop.  It's  later  than  I  thought. 
See  you  to-morrow!"  said  Piers. 

He  held  Avery 's  hand  again  in  his,  and  for  one  fleeting 
second  his  eyes  looked  into  hers.  Then  lightly  he  pressed 
her  fingers  and  passed  on  without  further  words. 

On  the  first  landing  he  encountered  Mrs.  Lorimer.  She 
smiled  upon  him  kindly.  "Oh,  Piers,  is  it  you?"  she  said. 
"Have  you  been  having  tea  in  the  schoolroom?" 

He  admitted  that  he  had. 

"And  must  you  really  go?"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry  for 
that.  Come  again,  won't  you?" 

Her  tone  was  full  of  gentle  friendliness,  and  Piers  was 
touched.  "It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  ask  me, "  he  said. 


A  Man's  Confidence  131 

"I  like  to  see  you  here,"  she  answered  simply.  "And  I 
am  so  grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  little  Jeanie." 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  said  Piers.  "I  assure  you  it's  quite 
the  other  way  round.  I  shall  certainly  come  again  since 
you  are  good  enough  to  ask  me." 

He  smiled  with  boyish  gallantry  into  the  wistful,  faded 
face,  carried  her  fingers  lightly  to  his  lips,  and  passed  on. 

"Such  a  nice  boy!"  Mrs.  Lorimer  murmured  to  herself 
as  she  went  up  to  the  nursery. 

"Poor  little  soul!"  was  Piers'  inward  comment  as  he  ran 
down  to  the  hall. 

Here  he  paused,  finding  himself  face  to  face  with  Lennox 
Tudor  who  was  taking  off  his  coat  preparatory  to  ascending. 

The  doctor  nodded  to  him  without  cordiality.  Neither 
of  them  ever  pretended  to  take  any  pleasure  in  the  other's 
society. 

"Are  you  just  going?"  he  asked.  "Your  grandfather  is 
wanting  you." 

"Who  says  so?"  said  Piers  aggressively. 

"I  say  so."  Curtly  Tudor  made  answer,  meeting  Piers' 
quick  frown  with  one  equally  decided. 

Piers  stood  still  in  front  of  him.  "Have  you  just  come 
from  the  Abbey?"  he  demanded. 

"I  have."  Tudor's  tone  was  non-committal.  He  stood 
facing  Piers,  waiting  to  pass. 

"What  are  you  always  going  there  for?"  burst  forth 
Piers,  with  heat.  "He  doesn't  want  you — never  follows 
your  advice,  and  does  excellently  well  without  it." 

"Really!"  said  Tudor.  He  uttered  a  short,  sarcastic 
laugh,  albeit  his  thick  brows  met  closely  above  his  glasses. 
"Well,  you  ought  to  know — being  such  a  devoted  and 
attentive  grandson." 

Piers'  hands  clenched  at  the  words.  He  looked  suddenly 
dangerous.  "What  in  thunder  do  you  mean?  "  he  demanded. 

Tudor   was   nothing   loth   to   enlighten   him.     He   was 


132  The  Bars  of  Iron 

plainly  angry  himself.  "I  mean,"  he  said,  "if  you  must 
have  it,  that  the  time  you  spend  philandering  here  would  be 
better  employed  in  looking  after  the  old  man,  who  has 
spent  a  good  deal  over  you  and  gets  precious  little  interest 
out  of  the  investment." 

"Confound  you!"  exclaimed  Piers  violently.  "Who  the 
devil  are  you  to  talk  to  me  like  this?  Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  put  up  with  it,  what?  If  so,  you're  damned  well 
mistaken.  You  leave  me  alone — and  my  grandfather  too; 
do  you  hear?  If  you  don't—"  He  broke  off,  breathing 
short  and  hard. 

But  Tudor  remained  unimpressed.  He  looked  at  Piers 
as  one  might  look  at  an  animal  raging  behind  bars.  ' '  Well  ? ' ' 

jjj  said.     ' '  Pray  finish !     If  I  don't " 

Piers'  face  was  ver>r  pale.  His  eyes  blazed  out  of  it, 
;red  and  tnre^tening-  "#  you  don't— I'll  murder  you!" 
he  said. 

"'  And  at  that  he  stopped  short  and  suddenly  wheeled 
round  as  he  caught  the  swish  of  a  dress  on  the  stairs.  He 
looked  up  into  Avery's  face  as  she  came  swiftly  down,  and 
the  blood  rose  in  a  deep,  dark  wave  to  his  forehead.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  cover  or  excuse  his  passionate  out 
burst,  which  it  was  perfectly  obvious  she  must  have  heard. 
He  merely  made  way  for  her,  his  hands  still  hard  clenched, 
his  eyes  immovably  upon  her. 

Avery  passed  him  with  scarcely  a  glance,  but  her  voice 
as  she  addressed  Lennox  Tudor  sounded  a  trifle  austere. 
"I  heard  you  speaking,"  she  said,  "and  ran  down  to  fetch 
you  upstairs.  Will  you  come  up  at  once,  please?  The 
ceremony  is  just  beginning." 

Tudor  held  out  a  steady  hand.  "Very  kind  of  you,  Mrs. 
Denys,"  he  said.  "Will  you  lead  the  way?"  And  then 
for  a  moment  he  turned  from  her  to  Piers.  "If  you  have 
anything  further  to  say  to  me,  Evesham,  I  shall  be  quite 
ready  to  give  you  a  hearing  on  a  more  suitable  occasion." 


A  Man's  Confidence  133 

"I  have  nothing  further  to  say,"  said  Piers,  still  with 
his  eyes  upon  Avery. 

She  would  not  look  at  him.  With  deliberate  intention 
she  ignored  his  look.  "Come,  doctor!"  she  said. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  together,  Piers  still  standing 
motionless,  still  mutely  watching.  There  was  no  temper 
nor  anger  in  his  face.  Simply  he  stood  and  waited.  And, 
as  if  that  silent  gaze  drew  her,  even  against  her  will,  sud 
denly  at  the  top  she  turned.  Her  own  sweet  smile  flashed 
into  her  face.  She  threw  a  friendly  glance  down  to  him. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Evesham!"  she  called  softly.  "A 
happy  Christmas  to  you!" 

1    And  as  if  that  were  what  he  had  been  waiting  for,  Piers 
bowed  very  low  in  answer  and  at  once  turned  away. 

His  face  as  he  went  out  into  the  night  wore  a  very  curious 
expression.  It  was  not  grim,  nor  ashamed,  nor  triumphant, 
and  yet  there  was  in  it  a  suggestion  of  all  three  moods. 

He  reached  his  car,  standing  as  he  had  left  it  in  the 
deserted  lane,  and  stooped  to  start  the  engine.  Then,  as 
it  throbbed  in  answer,  he  straightened  himself,  and  very 
suddenly  he  laughed.  But  it  was  not  a  happy  laugh;  and 
in  a  moment  more  he  shot  away  into  the  dark  as  though 
pursued  by  fiends.  If  he  had  gained  his  end,  if  he  had  in 
any  fashion  achieved  his  desire,  it  was  plain  that  it  did  not 
give  him  any  great  satisfaction.  He  went  like  a  fury 
through  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE      SCHEME 

"T    OOK  here,  boy!"     Very  suddenly,  almost  fiercely, 

!_-/  Sir  Beverley  addressed  his  grandson  that  evening  as 
they  sat  together  over  dessert.  "I've  had  enough  of  this 
infernal  English  climate.  I'm  going  away." 

Piers  was  peeling  a  walnut.  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or 
make  the  faintest  sign  of  surprise.  Steadily  his  fingers  con 
tinued  their  task.  His  lips  hardened  a  little,  that  was  all. 

"Do  you  hear?"  rapped  out  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  bent  his  head.  "What  about  the  hunting?"  he 
said. 

"Damn  the  hunting!"  growled  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  was  silent  a  moment.  Then:  "I  suggested  it  to 
you  myself,  didn't  I?"  he  said  deliberately,  "six  weeks  ago. 
And  you  wouldn't  hear  of  it." 

"Confound  your  impertinence!"  began  Sir  Beverley. 
But  abruptly  Piers  raised  his  eyes,  and  he  stopped.  "What 
do  you  mean?"  he  said,  in  a  calmer  tone. 

Very  steadily  Piers  met  his  look.  "That's  a  question 
I  should  like  to  ask,  sir,"  he  said.  "Why  do  you  want  to 
go  abroad?  Aren't  you  well?" 

"I  am  perfectly  well,"  declared  Sir  Beverley,  who 
furiously  resented  any  enquiry  as  to  his  health.  "Can't 
a  man  take  it  into  his  head  that  he'd  like  a  change  from  this 
beastly  damp  hole  of  a  country  without  being  at  death's 
door,  I  should  like  to  know?" 


The  Scheme  135 

"You  generally  have  a  reason  for  what  you  do,  sir," 
observed  Piers. 

"Of  course  I  have  a  reason,"  flung  back  Sir  Beverley. 

A  faint  smile  touched  the  corners  of  Piers'  mouth. 
"But  I  am  not  to  know  what  it  is,  what?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Beverley  glared  at  him.  There  were  times  when  he 
was  possessed  by  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  the  boy  was 
growing  up  into  a  manhood  that  threatened  to  overthrow 
his  control.  He  had  a  feeling  that  Piers'  submission  to  his 
authority  had  become  a  matter  of  choice  rather  than  of 
necessity.  He  had  inherited  his  Italian  grandmother's 
fortune,  moreover, — a  sore  point  with  Sir  Beverley  who 
would  have  repudiated  every  penny  had  it  been  left  at  his 
disposal — and  was  therefore  independent. 

"I've  given  you  a  reason.  What  more  do  you  want?" 
he  growled. 

Piers  looked  straight  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  longer; 
then  broke  into  his  sudden  boyish  laugh.  "All  right,  sir. 
When  shall  we  start?"  he  said. 

Sir  Beverley  stared.  "What  the  devil  are  you  laughing 
at?"  he  demanded. 

Piers  had  returned  to  the  peeling  of  his  walnut.  "No 
thing,  sir, ' '  he  said  airily.  ' '  At  least,  nothing  more  important 
than  your  reason  for  going  abroad." 

"Damn  your  impudence!"  said  Sir  Beverley,  and  then 
for  some  reason  he  too  ±>egan  to  smile.  "That's  settled 
then.  We'll  go  to  Monte  Carlo,  eh,  Piers?  You'll  like 
that." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  to  be  trusted  at  Monte  Carlo?" 
said  Piers. 

"I  let  you  go  round  the  world  by  yourself  while  you 
were  still  an  infant,  so  I  almost  think  I  can  trust  you  at 
Monte  Carlo  under  my  own  eye,"  returned  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  was  silent.  The  smile  had  left  his  lips.  He 
frowned  slightly  over  his  task. 


136  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Well?"  said  Sir  Beverley,  suddenly  and  sharply. 

"Well,  sir? "      Piers  raised  his  brows  without  looking  up. 

The  old  man  brought  down  an  impatient  fist  on  the 
table.  ' '  Why  can't  you  say  what  you  think  ? "  he  demanded 
angrily.  "You  sit  there  with  your  mouth  shut  as  if — 
as  if — "  His  eyes  went  suddenly  to  the  woman's  face  on 
the  wall  with  the  red  lips  that  smiled  half-sadly,  half- 
mockingly,  and  the  eyes  that  perpetually  followed  him 
but  never  smiled  at  all.  "Confound  you,  Piers!"  he  said. 
"I  sometimes  think  that  voyage  round  the  world  did  you 
more  harm  than  good." 

"Why,  sir?"  said  Piers  quickly. 

Sir  Beverley's  look  left  the  smiling,  baffling  face  upon 
the  wall  and  sought  his  grandson's.  "You  were  so  mad  to 
be  off  the  bearing-rein,  weren't  you?"  he  said.  "So  keen 
to  feel  your  own  feet?  I  thought  it  would  make  a  man 
of  you,  but  I  was  a  fool  to  do  it.  I'd  better  have  kept  you 
on  the  rein  after  all." 

"I  should  have  run  away  if  you  had,"  said  Piers.  He 
poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
He  looked  at  Sir  Beverley  above  it  with  a  smile  half-sad, 
half-mocking,  and  eyes  that  veiled  his  soul.  "I  should 
have  gone  to  the  devil  if  you  had,  sir,"  he  said,  "and — 
probably — I  shouldn't  have  come  back."  He  drank 
slowly,  his  eyes  still  upon  Sir  Beverley's  face. 

When  he  set  the  glass  down  again  he  was  openly  laughing. 
"Besides,  you  horsewhipped  me  for  something  or  other,  do 
you  remember?  It  hurts  to  be  horsewhipped  at  nineteen." 

Sir  Beverley  growled  at  him  inarticulately. 

"Yes,  I  know, "said  Piers.  "But  it  doesn't  affect  me 
so  much  now.  I'm  past  the  sensitive  age."  He  ate  his 
walnut,  drained  his  glass,  and  rose. 

"You — puppy!"  said  Sir  Beverley,  looking  up  at  him. 

Piers  came  to  his  side.  He  suddenly  knelt  down  and 
pulled  the  old  man's  arm  round  his  shoulders.  "I  say, 


The  Scheme  137 

I'm  going  to  enjoy  that  trip,"  he  said  boyishly.  "Let's 
get  away  before  the  New  Year!" 

Sir  Beverley  suffered  the  action  with  no  further  protest 
than  a  frown.  "You  weren't  so  mighty  anxious  when  I 
first  suggested  it,"  he  grumbled. 

Piers  laughed.  "Can't  a  man  change  his  mind?  I'm 
keen  enough  now." 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  for?"  Sir  Beverley  looked  at 
him  suspiciously. 

But  Piers'  frank  return  of  his  look  told  him  nothing. 
"I  love  the  South  as  you  know, "  he  said. 

"Damn  it,  yes!"  said  Sir  Beverley  irritably.  He  could 
never  endure  any  mention  of  the  Southern  blood  in  Piers. 

"And — "  Piers'  brown  fingers  grew  suddenly  tight  upon 
the  bony  hand  he  had  drawn  over  his  shoulder — "I  like 
going  away  with  you." 

"Oh,  stow  it,  Piers!"  growled  Sir  Beverley. 

"The  truth,  sir!"  protested  Piers,  with  eyes  that  sud 
denly  danced.  "  It  does  me  good  to  be  with  you.  It  keeps 
me  young." 

"Young!"  ejaculated  Sir  Beverley.     "You — infant!" 

Piers  broke  into  a  laugh.  He  looked  a  mere  boy  when 
he  gave  himself  up  to  merriment.  "And  it'll  do  you  good 
too,"  he  said,  "to  get  away  from  that  beastly  doctor  who 
is  always  hanging  around.  I  long  to  give  him  the  boot 
whenever  I  see  him." 

"You  don't  like  each  other,  eh?"  Sir  Beverley's  smile 
was  sardonic. 

"We  loathe  and  detest  each  other,"  said  Piers.  All 
the  boyishness  went  out  of  his  face  with  the  words;  he 
looked  suddenly  grim,  and  in  that  moment  the  likeness 
between  them  was  very  marked.  "I  presume  this  change 
of  air  scheme  was  his  suggestion, "  he  said  abruptly. 

"And  if  it  was?"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  again  through 


138  The  Bars  of  Iron 

clenched  teeth.  "For  which  piece  of  consideration  he 
has  my  sincere  gratitude,"  he  said.  He  pressed  his  grand 
father's  hand  again  and  rose.  "So  it's  to  be  Monte  Carlo, 
is  it?  Well,  the  sooner  the  better  for  me.  I'll  tell  Victor 
to  look  up  the  trains.  We  can't  get  away  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day.  But  we  ought  to  be  able  to  manage  the  day 
after." 

He  strolled  across  to  the  fire,  and  stood  there  with  his 
back  to  the  room,  whistling  below  his  breath. 

Sir  Beverley  regarded  him  frowningly.  There  was  no 
denying  the  fact,  he  did  not  understand  Piers.  He  had 
expected  a  strenuous  opposition  to  his  scheme.  He  had 
been  prepared  to  do  battle  with  the  boy.  But  Piers 
had  refused  the  conflict.  What  was  the  fellow's  game,  he 
asked  himself?  Why  this  prompt  compliance  with  his 
wishes?  He  was  not  to  be  deceived  into  the  belief  that  he 
wanted  to  go.  The  attraction  was  too  great  for  that. 
Unless  indeed — he  looked  across  at  the  bent  black  head 
in  sudden  doubt — was  it  possible  that  the  boy  had  met 
with  a  check  in  the  least  likely  direction  of  all?  Could  it 
be  that  the  woman's  plans  did  not  include  him  after  all? 

No!  No!  That  was  out  of  the  question.  He  knew 
women.  A  hard  laugh  rose  to  his  lips.  If  she  had  put 
a  check  upon  Piers'  advances  it  was  not  with  the  ultimate 
purpose  of  stopping  him.  She  knew  what  she  was  about  too 
well  for  that,  confound  her! 

He  stared  at  Piers  who  had  wheeled  suddenly  from  the 
fire  at  the  sound  of  the  laugh.  "Well?"  he  said  irritably. 
' '  Well  ?  What's  the  matter  now  ?  " 

The  eyes  that  countered  his  were  hard,  with  just  a  hint 
of  defiance.  "You  laughed,  sir,"  said  Piers  curtly. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  threw  back  Sir  Beverley.  "You're 
deuced  suspicious.  I  wasn't  laughing  at  you." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Piers.  He  spoke  deliberately,  as 
one  choosing  his  words.  His  face  was  stern.  "I  don't 


The  Scheme  139 

want  to  know  the  joke  if  it's  private.  But  I  should  like 
to  know  how  long  you  want  to  be  away." 

"How  long?  How  the  devil  can  I  tell?"  growled  Sir 
Beverley.  "Till  I've  had  enough  of  it,  I  suppose." 

"Does  it  depend  on  that  only?"  said  Piers. 

Sir  Beverley  pushed  back  his  chair  with  fierce  impatience. 
"Oh,  leave  me  alone,  boy,  do!  I'll  let  you  know  when  it's 
time  to  come  home  again." 

Piers  came  towards  him.  He  halted  with  the  light  from 
the  lamp  full  on  his  resolute  face.  "If  you  are  going  to 
wait  on  Tudor's  convenience,"  he  said,  "you'll  wait — • 
longer  than  I  shall." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  thundered  Sir  Beverley. 

But  again  Piers  -turned  aside  from  open  conflict.  He 
put  a  quiet  hand  through  his  grandfather's  arm. 

"Come  along,  sir!  We'll  smoke  in  the  hall,"  he  said. 
"I  think  you  understand  me.  If  you  don't — "  he  paused 
and  smiled  his  sudden,  winning  smile  into  the  old  man's 
wrathful  eyes — "I'll  explain  more  fully  when  the  time 
comes." 

"Confound  you,  Piers!"  was  Sir  Beverley 's  only  answer. 

Yet  he  left  the  room  with  the  boy's  arm  linked  in  his. 
And  the  woman's  face  on  the  wall  smiled  behind  them — 
the  smile  of  a  witch,  mysterious,  derisive,  aloof,  yet  touched 
with  that  same  magic  with  which  Piers  had  learned  even 
in  his  infancy  to  charm  away  the  evil  spirit  that  lurked  in 
his  grandfather's  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    WARNING 

away  to-morrow,  are  you?"  said  Ina  Rose, 
in  her  cool  young  voice.  "I  hope  you'll  enjoy  it." 

"Thanks!"  said  Piers.     "No  doubt  I  shall." 

He  spoke  with  his  eyes  on  the  dainty  lace  fan  he  had 
taken  from  her. 

Ina  frankly  studied  his  face.  She  had  always  found 
Piers  Evesham  interesting. 

"  I  should  be  wild  if  I  were  in  your  place, "  she  remarked, 
after  a  moment. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  his  brown  face  slightly 
smiled.  "Because  of  the  hunting?"  he  said,  and  turned 
his  eyes  upon  her  fresh,  girlish  face.  "But  there's  always 
next  year,  what?" 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Ina.  "You  talk  as  if  you  were 
older  than  your  grandfather.  It  wouldn't  comfort  me 
in  the  least  to  think  of  next  season's  hunting.  And  I 
don't  believe  it  does  you  either.  You  are  only  putting  it 
on." 

"All  right!"  said  Piers.  His  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  with  a 
species  of  mocking  homage  that  yet  in  a  fashion  subtly 
flattered.  He  always  knew  how  to  please  Ina  Rose,  though 
not  always  did  he  take  the  trouble.  "Let  us  say — for  the 
sake  of  argument — that  I  am  quite  inconsolable.  It  doesn't 
matter  to  anyone,  does  it?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  that,"  said  Ina. 

140 


The  Warning  141 

"It  ought  to  matter — anyhow  to  your  grandfather.  Why 
don't  you  make  him  go  by  himself?" 

Piers  laughed  a  careless  laugh,  still  boldly  watching  her. 
"That  wouldn't  be  very  dutiful  of  me,  would  it?"  he 
said. 

"I  suppose  you're  not  afraid  of  him?"  said  Ina,  who 
knew  not  the  meaning  of  the  word. 

"Why  should  you  suppose  that?"  said  Piers. 

She  met  his  look  in  momentary  surprise.  "To  judge  by 
the  way  you  behaved  the  other  day,  I  should  say  you 
were  not." 

Piers  frowned.     "Which  day?" 

Ina  explained  without  embarrassment.  "The  day  that 
girl  held  up  the  whole  Hunt  in  Holland's  meadow.  My 
word,  Piers,  how  furious  the  old  man  was!  Does  he  often 
behave  like  that?" 

Piers  still  frowned.  His  fingers  were  working  restlessly 
at  the  ivory  sticks  of  her  fan.  "  If  you  mean,  does  he  often 
thrash  me  with  a  horsewhip,  no,  he  doesn't,"  he  said 
shortly.  "And  he  wouldn't  have  done  it  then  if  I'd  had 
a  hand  to  spare.  I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  the  spectacle. 
Hope  you  were  all  edified." 

"You  needn't  be  waxy, "  said  Ina  calmly.  "  I  assure  you, 
you  never  showed  to  greater  advantage.  I  hope  your 
lady  friend  was  duly  grateful  to  her  deliverer.  I  rather 
liked  her  pluck,  Piers.  Who  is  she?" 

There  was  a  sudden  crack  between  Piers'  fingers.  He 
looked  down  hastily,  and  in  a  moment  displayed  three 
broken  ivory  fan-sticks  to  the  girl  beside  him.  "I'm 
horribly  sorry,  Ina, "  he  said. 

Ina  looked  at  the  damage,  and  from  it  to  his  face  of 
contrition.  "You  did  it  on  purpose,"  she  said. 

"I  did  not,"  said  Piers. 

"You're  very  rude,"  she  rejoined. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  protested.     "I'm  sorry.     I  hope  you 


142  The  Bars  of  Iron 

didn't  value  it  for  any  particular  reason,  rl'll  send  you 
another  from  Paris." 

She  spurned  the  broken  thing  with  a  careless  gesture. 
"Not  you!  You'd  be  afraid  to." 

Piers'  brows  went  up.     "Afraid?" 

"Of  your  grandfather,"  she  said,  with  a  derisive  smile. 
"If  he  caught  you  sending  anything  to  me — or  to  the  lady 
of  the  meadow — "  she  paused  eloquently. 

Piers  looked  grim.  "Of  course  I  shall  send  you  a  fan 
if  you'll  accept  it." 

"How  nice  of  you!"  said  Ina.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to 
send  something  for  her  in  the  same  parcel?  I'll  deliver  it 
for  you — if  you'll  tell  me  the  lady's  address." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  mischievously  as  she  made  the  sugges 
tion.  Piers  frowned  yet  a  moment  longer,  then  laughed 
back  with  abrupt  friendliness. 

"Thanks  awfully!  But  I  won't  trouble  you.  It's 
decent  of  you  not  to  be  angry  over  this.  I'll  get  you  a 
ripping  one  to  make  up." 

Ina  nodded.  "That'll  be  quite  amusing.  Everyone 
will  think  that  you're  really  in  earnest  at  last.  Poor 
Dick  will  be  furious  when  he  knows." 

"You'll  probably  console  him  pretty  soon,  "returned Piers. 

"Think  so? "  Ina's  eyes  narrowed  a  little;  she  looked  at 
Piers  speculatively.  "That's  what  you  want  to  believe, 
is  it?" 

"I?  Of  course  not!"  Piers  laughed  again.  "I  never 
wished  any  girl  engaged  yet." 

"Save  one,"  suggested  Ina,  and  an  odd  little  gleam 
hovered  behind  her  lashes  with  the  words.  "Why  won't 
you  tell  me  her  name?  You  might  as  well." 

"Why?"  said  Piers. 

"I  shall  find  it  out  in  any  case,"  she  assured  him.  "I 
know  already  that  she  dwells  under  the  Vicar's  virtuous 
roof,  and  that  the  worthy  Dr.  Tudor  finds  it  necessary  to 


The  Warning  143 

drop  in  every  day.  I  suppose  she  is  the  nurse-cook- 
housekeeper  of  that  establishment." 

"I  say,  how  clever  of  you!"  said  Piers. 

The  girl  laughed  carelessly.  "Isn't  it?  I've  studied 
her  in  church — and  you  too,  my  cavalier.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  ever  attended  so  regularly  before,  have  you? 
Did  she  ever  tell  you  her  age?" 

"Never,"  said  Piers. 

"  I  wonder, "  said  Ina  coolly.  And  then  rather  suddenly 
she  rose.  "Piers,  if  I'm  a  prying  cat,  you're  a  hard- 
mouthed  mule!  There!  Why  can't  you  admit  that 
you're  in  love  with  her?" 

Piers  faced  her  with  no  sign  of  surprise.  "Why  don't 
you  tell  me  that  you're  in  love  with  Guyes?"  he  said. 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  true!"  She  flung  back  her 
answer  with  a  laugh  that  sounded  unaccountably  bitter. 
"  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  man  who  is  worth  the  trouble." 

"Oh,  really!"  said  Piers.  "Don't  flatter  us  more  than 
you  need!  I'm  sorry  for  Guyes  myself.  If  he  weren't 
so  keen  on  you,  it's  my  belief  you'd  like  him  better." 

"Oh  no,  I  shouldn't!"  Ina  spoke  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 
"I  shouldn't  like  him  either  less  or  more,  whatever  he  did. 
I  couldn't.  But  of  course  he's  extremely  eligible,  isn't  he? " 

"  Does  that  count  with  you?"  said  Piers  curiously. 

She  looked  at  him.  "It  doesn't  with  you  of  course?" 
she  said. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  returned  with  emphasis. 

She  laughed  again,  and  pushed  the  remnants  of  her  fan 
with  her  foot.  "It  wouldn't.  You're  so,  charmingly 
young  and  romantic.  Well,  mind  the  doctor  doesn't 
cut  you  out  in  your  absence !  He  would  be  a  much  more 
suitable  parti  for  her,  you  know,  both  as  to  age  and  station. 
Shall  we  go  back  to  the  ball-room  now?  I  am  engaged  to 
Dick  for  the  next  dance.  I  mustn't  cut  him  in  his  own 
house." 


144  The  Bars  of  Iron 

It  was  an  annual  affair  but  quite  informal — this  Boxing 
Night  dance  at  the  Guyes'.  Dick  himself  called  it  a 
survival  of  his  schoolboy  days,  and  it  was  always  referred 
to  in  the  neighbourhood  as  "Dick's  Christmas  party." 
He  and  his  mother  would  no  more  have  dreamed  of  dis 
continuing  the  festivity  than  of  foregoing  their  Christmas 
dinner,  and  the  Roses  of  Wardenhurst  were  invariably 
invited  and  as  invariably  attended  it.  Piers  was  not  so 
constant  a  guest.  Dick  had  thrown  him  an  open  invitation 
on  the  hunting-field  a  day  or  two  before,  and  Piers,  having 
nothing  better  to  do,  had  decided  to  present  himself. 

He  liked  dancing,  and  was  easily  the  best  dancer  among 
the  men.  He  also  liked  Ina  Rose,  or  at  least  she  had 
always  thought  so,  till  that  night.  They  were  friends  of 
the  hunting-field  rather  than  of  the  drawing-room,  but  they 
always  drifted  together  wherever  they  met.  Sir  Beverley 
had  never  troubled  himself  about  the  intimacy.  The  girl 
belonged  to  the  county,  and  if  not  quite  the  brilliant  match 
for  Piers  that  he  would  have  chosen,  she  came  at  least  of 
good  old  English  stock.  He  knew  and  liked  her  father,  and 
he  would  not  have  made  any  very  strenuous  opposition  to 
an  alliance  between  the  two.  The  girl  was  well  bred  and 
heiress  to  the  Colonel's  estate.  She  would  have  added 
considerably  to  Piers'  importance  as  a  landowner,  and  she 
knew  already  how  to  hold  up  her  head  in  society.  Also, 
she  led  a  wholesome,  outdoor  existence,  and  was  not  the 
sort  of  girl  to  play  with  a  man's  honour. 

No,  on  the  whole  Sir  Beverley  had  no  serious  objection 
to  the  prospect  of  a  marriage  between  them,  save  that  he 
had  no  desire  to  see  Piers  married  for  another  five  years  at 
least.  But  Ina  could  very  well  afford  to  wait  five  years 
for  such  a  prize  as  Piers.  Meanwhile,  if  they  cared  to  get 
engaged — it  would  keep  the  boy  out  of  mischief,  and  there 
would  be  no  harm  in  it. 

So  had  run  Sir  Beverley's  thoughts  prior  to  the  appear- 


The  Warning  145 

ance  of  the  mother's  help  at  the  Vicarage.  But  she — the 
woman  with  the  resolute  mouth  and  grey,  steadfast  eyes — • 
had  upset  all  his  calculations.  It  had  not  needed  Lennox 
Tudor's  hint  to  put  him  on  his  guard.  He  had  known 
whither  the  boy's  wayward  fancy  was  tending  before  that. 
The  scene  in  the  hunting-field  had  been  sufficient  revelation 
for  him,  and  had  lent  strength  to  his  arm  and  fury  to  his 
indignation. 

Piers'  decision  to  spend  his  last  night  in  England  at  a 
dance  had  been  a  surprise  to  him,  but  then  the  boy  had 
puzzled  him  a  good  many  times  of  late.  He  had  even 
asked  himself  once  or  twice  if  it  had  been  his  deliberate 
intention  to  do  so.  But  since  it  was  absolutely  certain 
that  the  schemer  at  the  Vicarage  would  not  be  present  at 
Dick  Guyes'  party,  Sir  Beverley  did  not  see  any  urgent 
necessity  for  keeping  his  grandson  at  his  side.  He  even 
hoped  that  Piers  would  enjoy  himself  though  he  deemed 
him  a  fool  to  go. 

And,  to  judge  from  appearances,  Piers  was  enjoying 
himself.  Having  parted  from  Ina,  he  claimed  for  his 
partner  his  hostess, — a  pretty,  graceful  woman  who  danced 
under  protest,  but  so  exquisitely  that  he  would  hardly  be 
persuaded  to  give  her  up  when  the  dance  was  over. 

He  scarcely  left  the  ball-room  for  the  rest  of  the  evening, 
and  when  the  party  broke  up  he  was  among  the  last  to 
leave.  Dick  ingenuously  thanked  him  for  helping  to  make 
the  affair  a  success.  He  was  not  feeling  particularly  happy 
himself,  since  Ina  had  consistently  snubbed  him  throughout ; 
but  he  did  not  hold  Piers  in  any  way  responsible  for  her 
attitude.  Dick's  outlook  on  life  was  supremely  simple. 
He  never  attempted  to  comprehend  the  ways  of  women, 
being  serenely  content  to  regard  them  as  beyond  his  compre 
hension.  He  hoped  and  believed  that  one  day  Ina  would 
be  kind  to  him,  but  he  was  quite  prepared  to  wait  an  in- 
dc6nite  time  for  that  day  to  dawn.  He  took  all  rebuffs 


146  The  Bars  of  Iron 

with  resignation,  and  could  generally  muster  a  smile  soon 
after. 

He  smiled  tranquilly  upon  Piers  at  parting  and  con 
gratulated  him  upon  the  prospect  of  missing  the  worst  of 
the  winter.  To  which  Piers  threw  back  a  laugh  as  he 
drove  away  in  his  little  two-seater,  coupled  with  the  care 
less  assurance  that  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  his  time, 
whatever  the  weather. 

"Lucky  dog!"  said  Guyes,  as  he  watched  him  disappear 
down  the  drive. 

But  if  he  had  seen  the  expression  that  succeeded  Piers' 
laugh,  he  might  have  suppressed  the  remark.  For  Piers' 
face,  as  he  raced  alone  through  the  darkness,  was  the  set, 
grim  face  of  a  man  who  carries  a  deadly  purpose  in  his  soul. 
He  had  laughed  and  danced  throughout  the  evening,  but 
in  his  first  moment  of  solitude  the  devil  he  had  kept  at  bay 
had  entered  into  full  possession. 

To  the  rush  and  throb  of  his  engine,  he  heard  over  and 
over  the  gibing,  malicious  words  of  a  girl's  sore  heart: 
"Mind  the  doctor  doesn't  cut  you  out  in  your  absence!" 

Obviously  then  this  affair  wras  the  common  talk  of  the 
neighbourhood  since  news  of  it  had  even  penetrated  to 
Wardenhurst.  People  were  openly  watching  the  rivalry 
between  Lennox  Tudor  and  himself,  watching  and  speculat 
ing  as  to  the  result.  And  he,  about  to  be  ignominiously 
removed  from  the  conflict  by  his  grandfather,  at  Tudor's 
suggestion,  had  become  the  laughing-stock  of  the  place. 
Piers'  teeth  nearly  met  in  his  lower  lip.  Let  them  laugh! 
And  let  them  chatter!  He  would  give  them  ample  food 
for  amusement  and  gossip  before  he  left. 

He  had  yielded  to  his  grandfather's  desire  because 
instinct  had  told  him  that  his  absence  just  at  that  stage  of 
his  wooing  would  be  more  beneficial  than  his  presence. 
He  was  shrewd  enough  to  realize  that  the  hot  blood  in  him 
was  driving  him  too  fast,  urging  him  to  a  pace  which  might 


The  Warning  147 

irreparably  damage  his  cause.  For  that  reason  alone,  he 
was  ready  to  curb  his  fierce  impetuosity.  But  to  leave 
a  free  field  for  Lennox  Tudor  was  not  a  part  of  his  plan. 
He  had  scarcely  begun  to  regard  the  man  in  the  light  of  a 
serious  rival,  although  fully  aware  of  the  fact  that  Tudor 
was  doing  his  utmost  to  remove  him  from  his  path.  But 
if  Ina  thought  him  so,  he  had  probably  underestimated  the 
danger. 

He  had  always  detested  Tudor  very  thoroughly.  Piers 
never  did  anything  by  halves,  and  the  doctor's  undisguised 
criticism  of  him  never  failed  to  arouse  his  fiercest  resent 
ment.  That  Tudor  disliked  him  in  return  was  a  fact  that 
could  scarcely  escape  the  notice  of  the  most  careless 
observer.  The  two  were  plainly  antipathetic,  and  were 
scarcely  civil  to  one  another  even  in  public. 

But  that  night  Piers'  antagonism  flared  to  a  deadly 
hatred.  The  smouldering  fire  had  leaped  to  a  fierce  blaze. 
Two  nights  before  he  had  smothered  it  with  the  exultant 
conviction  that  Tudor's  chances  with  Avery  were  practically 
non-existent.  He  had  known  with  absolute  certainty 
that  he  was  not  the  type  of  man  to  attract  her.  But  to 
night  his  mood  had  changed.  Whether  Tudor's  chances 
had  improved  or  not,  he  scarcely  stopped  to  question, 
but  that  other  people  regarded  them  as  possibly  greater 
than  his  own  was  a  fact  that  sent  the  mad  blood  to  his 
head.  He  tore  back  through  the  winter  night  like  a  man 
possessed,  with  Ina  Rose's  scoffing  warning  beating  a  devil's 
tattoo  in  his  brain. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  PLACE  OF  TORMENT 

THE  surgery -bell  pealed  imperiously,  and  Tudor  looked 
up  from  his  book.  It  was  his  custom  to  read  far  into 
the  night,  for  he  was  a  poor  sleeper  and  preferred  a  cosy 
fireside  to  his  bed.  But  that  night  he  was  even  later  than 
usual.  Glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  he  saw 
that  it  was  a  quarter  to  two.  With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
expressive  rather  of  weariness  than  indifference,  he  rose  to 
answer  the  bell. 

It  pealed  again  before  he  reached  the  door,  and  the 
doctor  frowned.  He  was  never  very  tolerant  of  impatience. 
He  unfastened  the  bolts  without  haste.  The  case  might  be 
urgent,  but  a  steady  hand  and  cool  nerve  were  usually  even 
more  essential  than  speed  in  his  opinion.  He  opened  the 
door  therefore  with  a  certain  deliberation,  and  faced  the 
sharp  night  air  with  grim  resignation.  "Well?  Who  is  it? 
Come  in!" 

He  expected  to  see  some  village  messenger,  and  the  sight 
of  Piers,  stern-faced,  with  the  fur  collar  of  his  motor-coat 
turned  up  to  his  ears,  was  a  complete  surprise. 

"Hullo!"  he  said,  staring  at  him.     "Anything  wrong?" 

Piers  stared  back  with  eyes  of  burning  hostility.  "I  want 
a  word  with  you,"  he  announced  curtly.  "Will  you  come 
out,  or  shall  I  come  in?" 

"You'd  better  come  in,"  said  Tudor,  suppressing  a 
shiver,  "unless  I'm  wanted  up  at  the  Abbey." 

148 


The  Place  of  Torment  149 

"You're  not,"  said  Piers. 

He  stepped  into  the  passage,  and  impetuously  stripped 
off  his  heavy  coat.  Tudor  shut  the  door,  and  turned  round. 
He  surveyed  his  visitor's  evening-dress  with  a  touch  of 
contempt.  He  himself  was  clad  in  an  ancient  smoking- 
jacket,  much  frayed  at  the  cuffs;  and  his  carpet-slippers 
were  so  trodden  down  at  the  heel  that  he  could  only  just 
manage  to  shuffle  along  in  them. 

"Go  into  the  consulting-room!"  he  said.  "There's  a 
light  there." 

Piers  strode  in,  and  waited  for  him.  Seen  by  the  light  of 
the  gas  that  burned  there,  his  face  was  pale  and  set  in  lines 
of  iron  determination.  His  eyes  shone  out  of  it  like  the 
eyes  of  an  infuriated  wild  beast. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  come  for?"  he  said,  as  Tudor 
shambled  into  the  room. 

Tudor  looked  him  over  briefly  and  comprehensively. 
"No,  I  don't,"  he  said.  "I  hoped  I'd  seen  the  last  of 
you." 

His  words  were  as  brief  as  his  look.  It  was  obvious  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  wasting  time  in  mere  courtesy. 

Piers'  lips  tightened  at  his  tone.  He  looked  full  and 
straight  at  the  baffling  glasses  that  hid  the  other  man's 
contemptuous  eyes. 

"I've  come  for  a  reckoning  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Really?"  said  Tudor.  He  glanced  again  at  the  clock. 
"Rather  an  unusual  hour,  isn't  it?" 

Piers  passed  the  question  by.  He  was  chafing  on  his  feet 
like  a  caged  animal.  Abruptly  he  came  to  the  point. 

"I  told  you  the  other  day  that  I  wouldn't  put  up  with 
any  interference  from  you.  I  didn't  know  then  how  far 
your  interference  had  gone.  I  do  know  now.  This  scheme 
to  get  me  out  of  the  country  was  of  your  contrivance. " 

Fiercely  he  flung  the  words.  He  was  quivering  with 
passionate  indignation.  But  the  effect  on  Tudor  was 


150  The  Bars  of  Iron 

scarcely  perceptible.  He  only  looked  a  little  colder,  a  little 
more  satirical,  than  was  his  wont. 

"Well?"  he  said.    "What  of  it?" 

Piers  showed  his  teeth  momentarily.  His  hands  were 
hard  gripped  behind  him,  as  though  he  restrained  himself 
by  main  force  from  open  violence. 

"You  don't  deny  it?"  he  said. 

"Why  should  I?"  Tudor's  thin  lips  displayed  a  faint 
sneer.  "I  certainly  advised  your  grandfather  to  go  away, 
and  I  think  the  advice  was  sound." 

"It  was — from  your  point  of  view."  A  tremor  of  fierce 
humour  ran  through  Piers'  speech.  "But  plans — even 
•clever  ones — don't  always  turn  out  as  they  should.  This 
one  for  instance — what  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  gain 
by  it?"  . 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Tudor  stood  by  the  table  facing 
Piers,  his  attitude  one  of  supreme  indifference.  He  seemed 
scarcely  to  feel  the  stormy  atmosphere  that  pulsated  almost 
visibly  around  the  younger  man.  His  eyes  behind  their 
glasses  were  cold  and  shrewd,  wholly  emotionless. 

Piers  paused  an  instant  to  grip  his  self-control  the  harder, 
for  every  word  he  uttered  seemed  to  make  his  hold  the  more 
precarious. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and 
savagely  distinct.  "I  mean  that  what  you've  done — all  this 
sneaking  and  scheming  to  get  me  out  of  your  way — isn't 
going  to  serve  your  purpose.  I  mean  that  you  shall  swear 
to  me  here  and  now  to  give  up  the  game  during  my  absence, 
or  take  the  consequences.  It  is  entirely  due  to  you  that  I 
am  going,  but — by  Heaven — you  shall  reap  no  advantage 
from  it!" 

His  voice  rose  a  little,  and  the  menace  of  it  became  more 
apparent.  He  bent  slightly  towards  the  man  he  threatened. 
His  eyes  blazed  red  and  dangerous.  Tudor  stood  his  ground, 
but  it  was  impossible  any  longer  to  ignore  .Piers'  open.  fury. 


The  Place  of  Torment  151 

It  was  like  the  blast  of  a  hurricane  hurled  full  against  him. 
He  made  a  slight  gesture  of  remonstrance. 

"My  good  fellow,  all  this  excitement  is  utterly  uncalled 
for.  The  advice  I  gave  your  grandfather  would,  I  am  con 
vinced,  have  been  given  by  any  other  medical  man  in  the 
country.  If  you  are  not  satisfied  w'.th  it,  you  had  better 
get  him  to  have  another  opinion.  As  to  taking  advantage 
of  your  absence,  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean,  and  I 
think  if  you  are  wise  you  won't  stop  to  explain.  It's 
getting  late  and  if  you  don't  value  your  night's  rest,  I  can't 
do  without  mine.  Also,  I  think  when  the  morning  comes, 
you'll  be  ashamed  of  this  foolery." 

He  spoke  with  studied  coldness.  He  knew  the  value  of  a 
firm  front  when  facing  odds.  But  he  did  not  know  the 
fiery  soul  of  the  man  before  him,  or  realize  that  contempt 
poured  upon  outraged  pride  is  as  spirit  poured  upon  flame. 

He  saw  the  devil  in  Piers'  eyes  too  late  to  change  his 
tactics.  Almost  in  the  same  moment  the  last  shred  of 
Piers'  self-control  vanished  like  smoke  in  a  gale.  He  uttered 
a  fearful  oath  and  sprang  upon  Tudor  like  an  animal  freed 
from  a  leash. 

The  struggle  that  followed  was  furious  if  brief.  Tudor's 
temper,  once  thoroughly  roused,  was  as  fierce  as  any  man's, 
and  though  his  knowledge  of  the  science  of  fighting  was 
wholly  elementary,  he  made  a  desperate  resistance.  It 
lasted  for  possibly  thirty  seconds,  and  then  he  found  himself 
flung  violently  backwards  across  the  table  and  pinned  there, 
with  Piers'  hands  gripping  his  throat,  and  Piers'  eyes,  grim 
and  murderous,  glaring  down  into  his  own. 

"Be  still!"  ordered  Piers,  his  voice  no  more  than  a 
whisper.  "Or  I'll  kill  you — by  Heaven,  I  will!" 

Tudor  was  utterly  powerless  in  that  relentless  grip.  His 
heart  was  pumping  with  great  hammer-strokes;  his  breath 
ing  came  laboured  between  those  merciless  hands.  His 
own  hands  were  closed  upon  the  iron  wrists,  but  their  hold 


152  The  Bars  of  Iron 

was  weakening  moment  by  moment,  he  knew  their  grasp 
to  be  wholly  ineffectual.  He  obeyed  the  order  because  he 
lacked  the  strength  to  do  otherwise. 

Piers  slowly  slackened  his  grip.  "  Now, "  he  said,  speak 
ing  between  lips  that  scarcely  seemed  to  move,  "you 
will  make  me  that  promise. " 

"What — promise?"  Gaspingly  Tudor  uttered  the 
question,  yet  something  of  the  habitual  sneer  which  he 
always  kept  for  Piers  distorted  his  mouth  as  he  spoke. 
He  was  not  an  easy  man  to  beat,  despite  his  physical 
limitations. 

Sternly  and  implacably  Piers  answered  him.  "You 
will  swear — by  all  you  hold  sacred — to  take  no  advantage 
whatever  of  me  while  I  am  away.  You  had  a  special 
purpose  in  view  when  you  planned  to  get  me  out  of  the 
way.  You  will  swear  to  give  up  that  purpose,  till  I  come 
back." 

"I?  "said  Tudor. 

Just  the  one  word  flung  upwards  at  his  conqueror,  but 
carrying  with  it  a  defiance  so  complete  that  even  Piers 
was  for  the  moment  taken  by  surprise!  Then,  the  devil 
urging  him,  he  tightened  his  grip  again.  "Either  that," 
he  said,  "or " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  His  hands  completed 
the  threat.  He  had  passed  the  bounds  of  civilization,  and 
his  savagery  whirled  him  like  a  fiery  torrent  through  the 
gaping  jaws  of  hell.  The  maddening  flames  were  all  around 
him,  the  shrieking  of  demons  was  in  his  ears,  driving  him  on 
to  destruction.  He  went,  blinded  by  passion,  goaded  by 
the  intolerable  stabs  of  jealousy.  In  those  moments  he  was 
conscious  of  nothing  save  a  wild  delirium  of  anger  against 
the  man  who,  beaten,  yet  resisted  him,  yet  threw  him  his 
disdainful  refusal  to  surrender  even  in  the  face  of  over 
whelming  defeat. 

But  the  brief  respite  had  given  Tudor  a  transient  renewal 


The  Place  of  Torment  153 

cf  strength.  Ere  that  terrible  grip  could  wholly  lock  again, 
he  made  another  frantic  effort  to  free  himself.  Spasmodic 
as  it  was,  and  wholly  tmconsidered,  yet  it  had  the  advantage 
of  being  unexpected.  Piers  shifted  his  hold,  and  in  that 
instant  Tudor  found  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table. 
Sharply,  with  desperate  strength,  he  dragged  himself  side 
ways,  and  before  his  adversary  could  prevent  it  he  was  over 
the  edge.  He  fell  heavily,  dragging  Piers  with  him,  struck 
his  head  with  violence  against  the  table-leg,  and  crumpled 
with  the  blow  like  an  empty  sack. 

Piers  found  himself  gripping  a"  limp,  inanimate  object, 
and  with  a  sudden  sense  of  overpowering  horror  he  desisted. 
He  stumbled  up,  staggering  slightly,  and  drew  a  long,  hard 
breath.  His  heart  was  racing  like  a  runaway  engine.  All 
the  blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  be  concentrated  there. 
Almost  mechanically  he  waited  for  it  to  slow  down.  And, 
as  he  waited,  the  madness  of  that  wild  rush  through  hell 
fell  away  from  him.  The  demons  that  had  driven  him 
passed  into  distance.  He  was  left  standing  in  a  place  of 
desolation,  utterly  and  terribly  alone. 


A  trickle  of  cold  water  ran  down  Tudor's  chin.  He  put 
up  a  hesitating,  groping  hand,  and  opened  his  eyes. 

He  was  lying  in  th3  arm-chair  before  the  fire  in  which  he 
had  spent  the  evening.  The  light  danced  before  him  in 
blurred  flashes. 

"Hullo!"    he   muttered   thickly.     "I've   been   asleep." 

He  remained  passive  for  a  few  moments,  trying,  not  very 
successfully,  to  collect  his  scattered  senses.  Then,  with  an 
effort  that  seemed  curiously  laboured,  he  slowly  sat  up. 
Instinctively,  his  eyes  went  to  the  clock  above  him,  but  the 
hands  of  it  seemed  to  be  swinging  round  and  round.  He 
stared  at  it  bewildered. 

But  when  he  tried  to  rise  and  investigate  the  mystery, 


154  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  whole  room  began  to  spin,  and  he  sank  back  with  a 
feeling  of  intense  sickness. 

It  was  then  that  he  became  aware  of  another  presence. 
Someone  came  from  behind  him  and,  F.toopinrr,  held  a 
tumbler  to  his  lips.  He  looked  up  vaguely,  and  as  in  a 
dream  he  saw  the  face  of  Piers  Evesham. 

But  it  was  Piers  as  he  had  never  before  seen  him,  white- 
lipped,  unnerved,  shaking.  The  hand  that  held  the  glass 
trembled  almost  beyond  control. 

"What's  the  matter?"  questioned  Tudor  in  hazy  wonder. 
"Have  you  been  boozing,  or  have  I?" 

And  then,  his  perceptions  growing  stronger,  he  took  the 
glass  from  the  quivering  hand  and  slowly  drank. 

The  draught  steadied  him.  He  looked  up  with  more 
assurance,  and  saw  Piers,  still  with  that  deathly  look  on  his 
face,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  for  support. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter?"  said  Tudor  shar-ply. 

He  felt  for  his  glasses,  found  them  dangling  over  his  shoul 
der,  and  put  them  on.  One  of  them  was  cracked  across,  an 
illuminating  fact  which  accounted  for  much.  He  looked 
keenly  at  Piers  for  several  quiet  seconds. 

At  length  with  a  shade  of  humour  he  spoke.  "Here 
endeth  the  first  lesson!  You'd  make  a  better  show  if  you 
had  a  drink  also.  I'm  sorry  there's  only  one  glass.  You 
see,  I  wasn't  expecting  any  friends  to-night.  " 

Piers  started  a  little  and  straightened  himself;  but  his 
face  remained  bloodless,  and  there  was  a  curiously  stunned 
look  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  attempt  to  utter  a  word. 

Tudor  drained  his  glass,  sat  a  moment  or  two  longer, 
then  got  up.  There  were  brandy  and  water  on  his  writing- 
table.  He  poured  out  a  stiff  dose,  and  turned  to  Piers 
with  authority. 

"Pull  yourself  together,  Evesham!  I  should  have 
thought  you'd  made  a  big  enough  fool  of  yourself  for 
one  night.  Drink  this!  Don't  spill  it  now!  And  don't  sit 


The  Place  of  Torment  155 

down  on  the  fire,  for  I  don't  feel  equal  to  pulling  you  off!" 

His  manner  was  briskly  professional,  the  manner  he 
usually  reserved  for  the  hysterical  portion  of  his  patients. 
He  was  still  feeling  decidedly  shaky  himself,  but  Piers' 
collapse  was  an  admirable  restorative.  He  stood  byr 
vigilant  and  resolute,  while  the  brandy  did  its  work. 

Piers  drank  in  silence,  not  looking  at  him.  All  the 
arrogance  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  looked  broken  and 
unmanned. 

"Better?"  asked  Tudor  at  length. 

He  nodded  mutely,  and  set  down  the  glass. 

Tudor  surveyed  him  questioningly.  "What  happened 
to  you?"  he  asked  finally. 

"Nothing!"  Piers  found  his  voice  at  last,  it  was  low  and 
shamed.  "Nothing  whatever!  You — you — my  God! — I 
thought  you  were  dead,  that's  all. " 

"That  all?"  said  Tudor.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his 
temple.  There  was  a  fair-sized  lump  there  already,  and 
it  was  swelling  rapidly. 

Piers  nodded  again.  The  deathly  pallor  had  gone  from 
his  face,  but  he  still  avoided  Tudor's  eyes.  He  spoke  again, 
below  his  breath,  as  if  more  to  himself  than  to  Tudor. 

"You  looked  so  horribly  like — like — a  man  I  once — saw 
killed. " 

"If  you  are  wise,  you  will  go  home  to  bed,"  said  Tudor 
gruffly. 

Piers  flashed  a  swift  look  at  him.  He  stood  hesitating. 
"You're  not  really  hurt?"  he  questioned,  after  a  moment. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tudor  drily,  "I  am  not. " 

He  made  no  movement  of  reconciliation.  Perhaps  it  was 
hardly  to  be  expected  of  him.  Piers  made  none  either. 
He  turned  away  in  silence. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  the  hour.  Two 
o'clock!  Tudor  looked  at  it  with  a  wry  smile.  It  had 
been  a  lively  quarter  of  an  hour. 


156  The  Bars  of  Iron 

The  surgery-door  banged  upon  Piers'  departure.  He 
heard  his  feet  move  heavily  to  the  gate,  and  the  dull  clang 
of  the  latter  closing  behind  him.  Then,  after  a  protracted 
pause,  there  came  the  sound  of  his  motor. 

As  this  throbbed  away  into  distance  Tudor  smiled  again 
grimly,  ironically.  "Yes,  you  young  ruffian,"  he  said. 
"It's  given  your  nerves  a  nasty  jolt,  and  serves  you  jolly 
well  right !  I  never  saw  any  fellow  in  such  a  mortal  funk 
before,  and — from  your  somewhat  rash  remark — I  gather 
that  it's  not  the  first  lesson  after  all.  I  wonder  when — and 
how — you  killed  that  other  man. " 

He  was  still  speculating  as  he  turned  out  the  light  and 
went  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HORNS  AND  HOOFS 

IT  was  the  Reverend  Stephen  Lorimer's  custom  to  have 
all  letters  that  arrived  by  the  morning  post  placed 
beside  his  breakfast  plate  to  be  sorted  by  him  at  the 
end  of  family  prayers, — a  custom  which  Gracie  freely  criti 
cized  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  schoolroom,  and  which  her 
mother  in  earlier  days  had  gently  and  quite  ineffectually 
tried  to  stop.  It  was  always  a  somewhat  lengthy  proceeding 
as  it  entailed  a  careful  scrutiny  of  each  envelope,  especially 
in  the  case  of  letters  not  addressed  to  the  Reverend  Stephen. 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  handwriting  of  all  his 
wife's  correspondents,  and  was  generally  ready  with  some 
shrewd  guess  as  to  their  motives  for  writing.  They  were 
usually  submitted  to  him  for  perusal  as  soon  as  she  had  read 
them  herself,  a  habit  formed  by  Mrs.  Lorimer  when  she 
discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her  correspondence  as  his 
own  property  and  deeply  resented  any  inclination  on  her 
part  to  keep  it  to  herself. 

Avery's  arrival  had  brought  an  additional  interest  to  the 
morning  budget.  Her  letters  were  invariably  examined 
with  bland  curiosity  and  handed  on  to  her  with  comments 
appropriate  to  their  appearance.  Occasionally  envelopes 
with  an  Australian  postmark  reached  her,  and  these  always 
excited  especial  notice.  The  brief  spell  of  Avery's  married 
life  had  been  spent  in  a  corner  of  New  South  Wales.  In  the 
early  part  of  their  acquaintance,  Mr.  Lorimer  had  sought 

*57 


158  The  Bars  of  Iron 

to  draw  her  out  on  the  subject  of  her  experiences  during 
this  period,  but  he  had  found  her  reticent.  And  so  when 
ever  a  letter  came  addressed  in  the  strong,  masculine  hand 
of  her  Australian  correspondent,  some  urbane  remark  was 
invariably  made,  while  his  small  daughter  Gracie  swelled 
with  indignation  at  the  further  end  of  the'  table. 

"Two  epistles  for  Mrs.  Denys!"  he  announced,  as  he 
turned  over  the  morning's  mail  at  the  breakfast-table  two 
days  after  Christmas.  "Ah,  I  thought  our  Australian 
friend  would  be  calling  attention  to  himself  ere  the  festive 
season  had  quite  departed.  He  writes  from  Adelaide  on 
this  occasion.  That  indicates  a  move  if  I  mistake  not. 
His  usual  pied-a-terre  has  been  Brisbane  hitherto,  has  it 
*not?" 

His  little  dark  eyes  interrogated  Avery  for  a  moment  be 
fore  they  vanished  inwards  with  disconcerting  completeness. 

Avery  stiffened  instinctively.  She  was  well  aware  that 
Mr.  Lorimer  did  not  like  her,  but  the  fact  held  no  disturbing 
element.  To  her  mind  the  dislike  of  the  man  was  prefer 
able  to  his  favour  and  after  all  she  saw  but  little  of  him. 

She  went  on  therefore  with  her  occupation  of  cutting 
bread  and  butter  for  the  children  with  no  sign  of  annoyance 
save  that  slight,  scarcely  perceptible  stiffening  of  the  neck 
which  only  Gracie  saw. 

"I  hope  you  are  kind  to  your  faithful  correspondent," 
smiled  Mr.  Lorimer,  still  holding  the  letter  between  his 
finger  and  thumb.  "He  evidently  regards  your  friendship 
as  a  pearl  of  price,  and  doubtless  he  is  well-advised  to  do  so.  " 

Here  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  sent  a  barbed  glance 
at  Avery's  unresponsive  face. 

"Friendship  is  a  beautiful  thing,  is  it  not?"  he  said. 

"It  is, "  said  Avery,  deftly  cutting  her  fifth  slice. 

The  Reverend  Stephen  proceeded  with  clerical  fervour 
to  embellish  his  subject,  for  no  especial  reason  save  the 
pleasure  of  listening  to  his  own  eloquence — a  pleasure  which 


Horns  and  Hoofs  159 

never  palled.  "  It  partakes  of  that  divine  quality  of  charity 
so  sadly  lacking  in  many  of  us,  and  sheds  golden  beams 
of  sunshine  in  the  humblest  earthly  home.  It  has  been 
aptly  called  the  true  earnest  of  eternity." 

"Really!"  said  A  very. 

"An  exquisite  thought,  is  it  not?"  said  the  Vicar. 
"Grace,  my  child,  for  the  one-and- twentieth  time  I  must 
beg  of  you  not  to  swing  your  legs  when  sitting  at  table." 

"I  wasn't,"  said  Gracie. 

Her  father's  brows  were  elevated  in  surprise.  His  eyes 
as  a  consequence  were  opened  rather  wider  than  usual, 
revealing  an  unmistakably  malignant  gleam. 

"That  is  not  the  way  in  which  a  Christian  child  should 
receive  admonition,"  he  said.  "If  you  were  not  swinging 
your  legs,  you  were  fidgeting  in  a  fashion  which  you  very 
well  know  to  be  unmannerly.  Do  not  let  me  have  to  com 
plain  of  your  behaviour  again!" 

Gracie's  cheeks  were  crimson,  her  violet  eyes  blazing  with 
resentment;  and  A  very,  dreading  an  outburst,  laid  a  gentle 
restraining  hand  upon  her  shoulder  for  an  instant. 

The  action  was  well-meant,  but  its  results  were  unfortu 
nate.  Gracie  impulsively  seized  and  kissed  the  hand  with 
enthusiasm.  "All  right,  A  very  dear,"  she  said  with 
pointed  docility. 

Mr.  Lorimer's  brows  rose  a  little  higher,  but  being 
momentarily  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  comment  he  contented 
himself  with  a  return  to  Avery's  correspondence. 

"The  other  letter,"  he  said,  "bears  the  well-known  crest 
of  the  Evesham  family.  Ah,  Mrs.  Denys!"  he  shook  his 
head  at  her.  "  Now,  what  does  that  portend? " 

"What  is  the  crest?"  asked  A  very,  briskly  cutting 
another  slice. 

"The  devil,"  said  Gracie. 

"My  dear!"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Lorimer,  with  a  nervous 
glance  towards  her  husband. 


160  The  Bars  of  Iron 

The  Reverend  Stephen  was  smiling,  but  in  a  fashion  she 
did  not  quite  like.  He  addressed  Avery. 

"The  Evesham  crest,  Mrs.  Denys,  is  a  gentleman  with 
horns  and  hoofs  and  under  him  the  one  expressive  woid, 
'Cave.'  Excellent  advice,  is  it  not?  I  think  we  should  do 
well  to  follow  it."  He  turned  the  envelope  over,  and 
studied  the  address.  "What  a  curious  style  of  writing 
the  young  man  has,  unrestrained  to  a  degree!  This  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  written  in  a  desperate  mood.  Mrs.  Denys, 
Mrs.  Denys,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

He  began  to  laugh,  but  stopped  abruptly  as  Julian,  who 
was  seated  near  him,  with  a  sudden,  clumsy  movement, 
upset  a  stream  of  cocoa  across  the  breakfast-table.  This 
created  an  instant  diversion.  Mr.  Lorimer  turned  upon 
him  vindictively,  and  soundly  smacked  his  head,  Mrs. 
Lorimer  covered  her  face  and  wept,  and  Avery,  with 
Gracie  close  behind,  hurried  to  remedy  the  disaster. 

Ronald  came  to  help  her  in  his  quiet,  gentlemanly  way, 
dabbing  up  the  thick  brown  stream  with  his  table-napkin. 
Pat  slipped  round  to  his  mother  and  hugged  her  hard. 
And  Olive,  the  only  unmoved  member  of  the  party,  looked 
on  with  contemptuous  eyes  the  while  she  continued  her 
breakfast.  Jeanie  still  breakfasted  upstairs  in  the  school 
room,  and  so  missed  the  fracas. 

"The  place  is  a  pig-sty!"  declared  Mr.  Lorimer,  roused 
out  of  all  complacence  and  casting  dainty  phraseology  to 
the  winds.  "And  you,  sir, " — he  addressed  his  second  son, 
— "wholly  unfit  for  civilized  society.  Go  upstairs,  and 
— if  you  have  any  appetite  left  after  this  disgusting  exhibi 
tion — satisfy  it  in  the  nursery!" 

Julian,  crimson  but  wholly  unashamed,  flung  up  his 
head  defiantly  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Stop!"  commanded  Mr.  Lorimei,  ere  he  reached 
it. 

Julian  stopped. 


Horns  and  Hoofs  161 

His  father  looked  him  up  and  down  with  gradually 
returning  composure.  "You  will  not  go  to  the  nursery," 
he  said.  "You  will  go  to  the  study  and  there  suffer  the 
penalty  for  insolence." 

"Stephen!"  broke  from  Mrs.  Lorimer  in  anguished 
protest. 

"A  beastly  shame!"  cried  Gracie  vehemently,  flinging 
discretion  to  the  winds;  she  adored  her  brother  Julian. 
" He  never  spoke  a  single  word!" 

"Go,  Julian!"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 

Julian  went,  banging  the   door  vigorously  behind  him 

Then,  amid  an  awful  silence,  the  Vicar  turned  his 
scrutiny  upon  his  small  daughter. 

Gracie  stood  up  under  it  with  all  the  courage  at  her  dis 
posal,  but  she  was  white  to  the  lips  before  that  dreadful 
gaze  passed  from  her  to  Avery. 

"  Mrs.  Denys, "  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  in  tones  of  icy  courtesy, 
"will  you  oblige  me  by  taking  that  child  upstairs,  undressing 
her,  and  putting  her  to  bed?  She  will  remain  there  until 
I  come." 

Avery,  her  task  accomplished,  turned  and  faced  him. 
She  was  as  white  as  Gracie,  but  there  was  a  steadfast  light 
in  her  eyes  that  showed  her  wholly  unafraid. 

"Mr.  Lorimer,"  she  said,  "with  your  permission  I  will 
deal  with  Gracie.  She  has  done  wrong,  I  know.  By-and- 
bye,  she  will  be  sorry  and  tell  you  so. " 

Mr.  Lorimer  smiled  sarcastically.  "An  apology,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Denys,  does  not  condone  the  offence.  It  is  wholly 
against  my  principles  to  spare  the  rod  when  it  is  so  richly 
merited,  and  I  shall  not  do  so  on  this  occasion.  Will  you 
kindly  do  as  I  have  requested?" 

It  was  final,  and  Avery  knew  it.  Mrs.  Lorimer  knew  it 
also,  and  burst  into  hysterical  crying. 

Avery  turned  swiftly.  "Go  upstairs,  dear!"  she  said  to 
Gracie,  and  Gracie  went  like  an  arrow. 


1 62  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Mrs.  Lorimer  started  to  her  feet.  "  Stephen !  Stephen ! " 
she  cried  imploringly. 

But  her  husband  turned  a  deaf  ear.  With  a  contemptu 
ous  gesture  he  tossed  Avery's  letters  upon  the  table  and 
stalked  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  uttered  a  wild  cry  of  despair,  and  fell  back 
fainting  in  her  chair. 

For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  Avery  was  fully  occupied 
in  restoring  her,  again  assisted  by  Ronald.  When  she  came 
to  herself,  it  was  only  to  shed  anguished  tears  on  Avery's 
shoulder  and  repeat  over  and  over  again  that  she  could  not 
bear  it,  she  could  not  bear  it. 

Avery  was  of  the  same  opinion,  but  she  did  not  say  so. 
She  strove  instead  with  the  utmost  tenderness  to  persuade 
her  to  drink  some  tea.  But  even  when  she  had  succeeded 
in  this,  Mrs.  Lorimer  continued  to  be  so  exhausted  and  upsek 
that  at  last,  growing  uneasy,  Avery  despatched  Ronald 
for  the  doctor. 

She  sent  Olive  for  the  children's  nurse  and  took  counsel 
with  her  as  to  getting  her  mistress  back  to  bed.  But  Nurse 
instantly  discouraged  this  suggestion. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  ma'am,  don't  take  her  upstairs!" 
she  said.  "The  master's  up  there  with  Miss  Gracie,  and 
he's  whipping  the  poor  lamb  something  cruel.  He  made  me 
undress  her  first. " 

' ' Oh,  I  cannot  have  that ! "  exclaimed  Avery.  "Stay  here 
a  minute,  Nurse,  whils  I  go  up!" 

She  rushed  upstairs  in  furious  anger  to  the  room  in 
which  the  three  little  girls  slept.  The  door  was  locked,  but 
the  sounds  within  were  unmistakable.  Gracie  was  plainly 
receiving  severe  punishment  from  her  irate  parent.  Her 
agonized  crying  tore  Avery's  heart. 

She  threw  herself  at  the  door  and  battered  at  it  with  her 
fists.  "Mr.  Lorimer!"  she  called.  "Mr.  Lorimer,  let  me 
in!" 


Horns  and  Hoofs  163 

There  was  no  response.  Possibly  she  was  not  even  heard, 
for  the  dreadful  crying  continued  and,  mingled  with  it, 
the  swish  of  the  slender  little  riding-switch  which  in  the 
earlier,  less  harassed  days  of  his  married  life  the  Reverend 
Stephen  had  kept  for  the  horse  he  rode,  and  which  now  he 
kept  for  his  children. 

They  were  terrible  moments  for  Avery  that  she  spent 
outside  that  locked  door,  listening  impotently  to  a  child's 
piteous  cries  for  mercy  from  one  who  knew  it  not.  But 
they  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Gracie's  distress  sank  into 
anguished  sobs,  and  Avery  knew  that  the  punishment  was 
over.  Mr.  Lorimer  had  satisfied  both  his  sense  of  duty  and 
hi?  malice. 

She  heard  him  speak  in  cold,  cutting  tones.  "I  have 
punished  you  more  severely  than  I  had  ever  expected  to 
find  necessary,  and  I  hope  that  the  lesson  will  be  sufficient. 
But  I  warn  you,  Grace,  most  solemnly  that  I  shall  watch 
your  behaviour  very  closely  for  the  future,  and  if  I  detect 
in  you  the  smallest  indication  of  the  insolence  and  defiance 
for  which  I  have  inflicted  this  punishment  upon  you  to-day 
I  shall  repeat  the  punishment  fourfold.  No!  Not  another 
word!"  as  Gracie  made  some  inarticulate  utterance.  "Or 
you  will  compel  me  to  repeat  it  to-night!" 

And  with  that,  he  walked  quietly  to  the  door  and  unlocked 
it. 

Avery  had  ceased  to  beat  upon  it ;  she  met  him  white  and 
stiff  in  the  doorway. 

"I  have  just  sent  for  the  doctor,"  she  said.     "Mrs 
Lorimer  has  been  taken  ill." 

She  passed  him  at  once  with  the  words,  not  looking  at 
him,  for  she  could  not  trust  herself.  Straight  to  Gracie, 
huddled  on  the  floor  in  her  night-dress,  she  went,  and  lifted 
the  child  bodily  to  her  bed. 

Gracie  cjung  to  her,  sobbing  passionately.  Mr.  Lorimer 
lingered  in  the  doorway. 


164  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Will  you  go,  please?"  said  Avery,  tight-lipped  and 
rigid,  the  child  clasped  to  her  throbbing  heart. 

It  was  a  definite  command,  spoken  in  a  tone  that  almost 
compelled  compliance,  and  Mr.  Lorimer  lingered  no  more. 

Then  for  one  long  minute  Avery  sat  and  rocked  the  poor 
little  tortured  body  in  her  arms. 

At  length,  through  Gracie's  sobs,  she  spoke.  "Grade 
darling,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something  big  for  me. " 

"Yes?"  sobbed  Gracie,  clinging  tightly  round  her  neck. 

"Leave  off  crying!"  Avery  said.  "Please  leave  off 
crying,  darling,  and  be  your  own  brave  self!" 

"I  can't,"  cried  Gracie. 

"  But  do  try,  darling ! "  Avery  urged  her  softly.  "Because, 
you  see,  I  can't  leave  you  like  this,  and  your  poor  little 
mother  wants  me  so  badly.  She  is  ill,  Gracie,  and  I  ought 
to  go  to  her,  but  I  can't  while  you  are  crying  so. " 

Thus  adjured,  Gracie  made  gallant  efforts  to  check 
herself.  But  her  spirit  was  temporarily  quite  broken.  She 
stood  passively  with  the  tears  running  down  her  face  while 
Avery  hastily  dressed  her  again  and  set  her  rumpled  hair  to 
rights.  Then  again  for  a  few  seconds  they  held  each  other 
very  tightly. 

"Bless  you,  my  own  brave  darling!"  Avery  whispered. 

To  which  Gracie  made  tearful  reply:  "Whatever  should 
we  do  without  you,  dear — dear  Avery?" 

"And  you  won't  cry  any  more?"  pleaded  Avery,  who  was 
nearer  to  tears  herself  than  she  dared  have  owned. 

"No,"  said  Gracie  valiantly. 

She  began  to  dry  her  eyes  with  vigour — a  hopeful  sign; 
and  after  pressing  upon  Avery  another  damp  kiss  was  even 
able  to  muster  a  smile. 

"Now  you  can  do  something  to  help  me,"  said  Avery. 
"Give  yourself  five  minutes — here's  my  watch  to  go  by!" 
She  slipped  it  off  her  own  wrist  and  on  to  Gracie's.  "Then 
run  up  to  the  nursery  and  see  after  the  children  while  Nurse 


Horns  and  Hoofs  165 

is  downstairs!  And  drink  a  cup  of  milk,  dearie!  Mind 
you  do,  for  you've  had  nothing  yet. " 

"I  shall  love  to  wear  your  watch,"  murmured  Gracie, 
beginning  to  be  comforted. 

"  I  know  you'll  take  care  of  it, "  Avery  said,  with  a  loving 
hand  on  the  child's  hair.  "Now  you'll  be  all  right,  will 
you?  I  can  leave  you  without  worrying?" 

Gracie  gave  her  face  a  final  polish,  and  nodded.  Spent 
and  sore  though  she  was,  her  spirit  was  beginning  to  revive. 
"Is  Mother  really  ill?"  she  asked,  as  Avery  turned  to  go. 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  I'm  rather  anxious  about  her," 
said  Avery. 

"It's  all  Father's  fault,"  said  Gracie. 

Avery  was  silent.  She  could  not  contradict  the 
statement. 

As  she  reached  the  door,  Gracie  spoke  again,  but  more  to 
herself  than  to  Avery.  "  I  hope — when  he  dies — he'll  go  to 
hell  and  stay  there  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever!" 

"Oh,  Gracie!"  Avery  stopped,  genuinely  shocked. 
"How  wrong!"  she  said. 

Gracie  nodded  several  times.  "Yes,  I  know  it's  wrong, 
but  I  don't  care.  And  I  hope  he'll  die  to-morrow." 

"  Hush !     Hush ! ' '  Avery  said. 

Whereat  Gracie  broke  into  a  propitiatory  smile.  "The 
things  I  wish  for  never  happen, "  she  said. 

And  Avery  departed,  wondering  if  this  statement  deserved 
to  be  treated  in  the  light  of  an  amendment. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  DAY  OF  TROUBLE 

LENNOX  TUDOR  spent  hours  at  the  Vicarage  that 
day  in  close  attendance  upon  Mrs.  Lorimer  in  com 
pany  with  Avery  who  scarcely  left  her  side.     Terrible  hours 
they  were,  during  which  they  battled  strenuously  to  keep 
the  poor,  quivering  life  in  her  weary  body. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  pull  round," 
Tudor  assured  Avery. 

But  yet  throughout  the  day  she  hovered  on  the  verge  of 
collapse. 

By  night  the  worst  danger  was  over,  but  intense  weakness 
remained.  She  lay  white  and  still,  taking  notice  of  nothing. 
Only  once,  when  Avery  was  giving  her  nourishment,  did  she 
rouse  herself  to  speak. 

"Beg  my  husband  not  to  be  vexed  with  me!"  she  whis 
pered.  "Tell  him  there  won't  be  another  little  one  after 
all !  He'll  be  glad  to  know  that. " 

And  Avery,  cut  to  the  heart,  promised  to  deliver  the 
message. 

A  little  later  she  stole  away,  leaving  the  children's  nurse 
in  charge,  and  slipped  up  to  the  schoolroom  for  some  tea. 
Tudor  had  gone  to  see  another  patient,  but  had  promised  to 
return  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  children  were  all  gathered  round  the  table  at  which 
Olive  very  capably  presided.  Gracie,  looking  wan  and 
subdued,  sat  on  the  end  of  Jeanie's  sofa ;  but  she  sprang  to 
meet  Avery  the  moment  she  appeared. 

166 


The  Day  of  Trouble  167 

Avery  sat  down,  holding  the  child's  hand  in  hers.  She 
glanced  round  the  table  as  she  did  so. 

"Where  is  Julian?" 

"Upstairs,  "  said  Ronald  briefly.     "In  disgrace." 

Avery  felt  her  heart  contract  with  a  sick  sense  of  further 
trouble  in  the  air.  "Has  he  been  there  all  day?"  she  asked. 
Ronald  nodded.  "And  another  flogging  to-night  if  he 
doesn't  apologize.  He  says  he'll  die  first. " 

"So  would  I, "  breathed  Gracie. 

At  this  juncture  the  door  swung  open  with  stately  preci 
sion,  and  Mr.  Lorimer  entered.  Everyone  rose,  according 
to  established  custom,  with  the  exceptions  of  Avery  and 
Jeanie.  Gracie 's  fingers  tightened  convulsively  upon 
Avery's  hand,  and  she  turned  as  white  as  the  table-cloth. 

Mr.  Lorimer,  however,  looked  over  her  head  as  if  she 
did  not  exist,  and  addressed  Avery. 

"Mrs.  Denys,  be  so  good  as  to  spare  me  two  minutes  in 
the  study!"  he  said  with  extreme  formality. 

"Certainly,"  Avery  made  quiet  reply.  "I  will  come 
to  you  before  I  go  back  to  Mrs.  Lorimer. " 

He  raised  his  brows  slightly,  as  if  he  had  expected  a  more 
prompt  compliance  with  his  request.  And  then  his  eyes 
fell  upon  Gracie,  clinging  fast  to  Avery's  hand. 

"Grace,"  he  said,  in  his  clear,  definite  tones,  "come 
here!" 

The  child  gave  a  great  start  and  shrank  against  Avery's 
shoulder.  "Oh  no!"  she  whispered.  "No!" 

"Come  here!"  repeated  Mr.  Lorimer. 

He  extended  his  hand,  but  Gracie  only  shrank  further 
away.  She  was  trembling  violently,  so  violently  that 
Avery  felt  impelled  to  pass  a  sustaining  arm  around  her. 

"Come, my  child!"  said  the  Vicar, the  majestic  composure 
of  his  features  gradually  yielding  to  a  look  of  dawning 
severity. 

"Go,  dear!"  whispered  Avery. 


1 68  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"I  don't  want  to,"  gasped  Grade. 

"I  shall  not  punish  you,"  her  father  said,  "unless  I  find 
you  disobedient  or  still  unrepentant. " 

"Darling,  go!"  A  very  urged  softly  into  her  ear.  "It'll 
be  all  right  now." 

But  Gracie,  shaking  from  head  to  foot  and  scarcely  able 
to  stand,  only  clung  to  her  the  faster,  and  in  a  moment 
she  began  agitatedly  to  cry. 

Mr.  Lorimer's  hand  fell  to  his  side.  "Still  unrepentant, 
I  fear,"  he  said. 

Avery,  with  the  child  gathered  closely  to  her,  looked 
across  at  him  with  wide,  accusing  eyes. 

"She  is  frightened  and  upset,"  she  said.  "It  is  not  fair 
to  judge  her  in  this  condition." 

Mr.  Lorimer's  eyes  gleamed  back  malignantly.  He 
made  her  an  icy  bow.  "In  that  case,  Mrs.  Denys,"  he 
said,  "she  had  better  go  to  bed  and  stay  there  until  her 
condition  has  improved. " 

Avery  compressed  her  lips  tightly,  and  made  no  rejoinder. 

The  Reverend  Stephen  compressed  his,  and  after  a  defi 
nite  pause  of  most  unpleasant  tension,  he  uttered  a  deep 
sigh  and  withdrew. 

"I  know  he  means  to  do  it  again!"  sobbed  Gracie.  "I 
know  he  does ! ' ' 

"He  shall  not!"  said  Avery. 

And  with  the  words  she  put  the  child  from  her,  rose,  and 
with  great  determination  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Lorimer  had  scarcely  settled  himself  in  what  he 
called  his  "chair  of  ease"  in  the  study  when  her  low  knock 
reached  him,  and  she  entered.  Her  grey  eyes  were  no 
longer  angry,  but  very  resolute.  She  closed  the  door  softly, 
and  came  straight  to  the  fire. 

"Mr.  Lorimer,"  she  said,  her  voice  pitched  very  low, 
"I  want  you  to  be  patient  with  me  just  for  a  minute, 
Will  you?" 


The  Day  of  Trouble  169 

Mr.  Lorimer  sighed  again.  "I  am  yearning  for  the 
refreshment  of  a  little  solitary  meditation,  Mrs.  Denys," 
he  said. 

"I  shall  not  keep  you,"  Avery  rejoined  steadily.  She 
stood  before  him,  very  pale  but  wholly  composed.  "What 
I  have  to  say  can  be  said  in  a  very  few  seconds.  First, 
with  regard  to  Gracie;  the  child  is  so  upset  that  I 
think  any  further  punishment  would  make  her  downright 
ill." 

"Pooh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Denys!"  said  the  Reverend 
Stephen. 

Avery  paused  a  moment.  "Will  you  try  to  listen  to  me 
with  an  open  mind?"  she  said. 

"I  am  listening,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 

"I  know  she  was  naughty  this  morning,"  Avery  con 
tinued.  "I  am  not  trying  to  defend  her  behaviour.  But 
her  punishment  was  a  very  severe  one,  and  it  has  so  terri 
fied  her  that  at  present  she  can  think  of  nothing  else. 
Give  her  time  to  be  sorry!  Please  give  her  time! " 

Mr.  Lorimer  glanced  at  the  clock.  "She  has  already 
had  nine  hours,"  he  observed.  "I  shall  give  her  three 
more. " 

"And  then?"  said  Avery. 

His  eyes  travelled  up  to  her  troubled  face.  "And  if  by 
then,"  he  said  deliberately,  "she  has  not  come  to  me  to 
express  her  penitence,  I  shall  be  reluctantly  compelled^  to 
repeat  the  punishment. " 

""You  will  drive  the  child  out  of  her  senses  if  you  do!" 
Avery  exclaimed. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Denys, 
permit  me  to  remind  you  that  I  have  had  considerable 
experience  in  the  upbringing  of  children." 

"And  they  are  all  afraid  of  you, "  Avery  said. 

He  smiled.  "In  my  opinion  a  little  wholesome  awe  is 
salutary.  No,  Mrs.  Denys,  I  cannot  listen  any  further 


170  The  Bars  of  Iron 

to  your  persuasion.  In  fact  I  fear  that  in  Grace's  case  I 
have  so  far  erred  on  the  side  of  laxness.  She  has  become 
very  wild  and  uncontrolled,  and — she  must  be  tamed. " 

He  closed  his  lips  upon  the  word,  and  despair  entered 
Avery's  heart.  She  gripped  her  self-control  with  all  her 
might,  realizing  that  the  moment  she  lost  it,  her  strength 
would  be  gone. 

With  a  great  effort  she  turned  from  the  subject.  "I 
have  a  message  for  you  from  Mrs.  Lorimer, "  she  said, 
after  a  moment,  and  proceeded  to  deliver  it  in  a  low, 
steady  voice,  her  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

The  man  in  the  chair  heard  it  without  the  movement 
of  a  muscle  of  his  face.  "I  will  endeavour  to  look  in  upon 
her  presently, "  was  all  the  reply  he  made. 

Avery  turned  to  go,  but  he  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Mrs.  Denys, "  he  said  smoothly,  "you  forget,  I  think, 
that  I  also  had  something  to  say. " 

Avery  paused.     She  had  forgotten. 

He  turned  his  eyes  deliberately  up  to  hers,  as  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair.  "I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you, "he 
said,  "that  in  consequence  of  your  unfortunate  zeal  in 
encouraging  the  children  in  insubordination,  I  can  no  longer 
look  upon  you  as  in  any  sense  a  help  in  my  household.  I 
therefore  desire  that  you  will  take  a  month's  notice  from 
now.  If  I  can  fill  your  place  sooner,  I  shall  dispense  with 
your  services  earlier." 

Calmly,  dispassionately,  he  uttered  the  words.  Avery 
stood  quite  still  to  hear  them.  And  through  her  like  a 
stab  there  ran  the  thought  of  the  poor  little  woman  upstairs. 
The  pain  of  it  was  almost  unbearable.  She  caught  her 
breath  involuntarily. 

But  the  next  moment  she  was  herself  again.  She  bowed 
without  a  word,  and  turned  to  go. 

She  had  nearly  reached  the  door  ere  she  discovered  that  it 
stood  open,  and  that  Lennox  Tudor  was  on  the  threshold, 


The  Day  of  Trouble  171 

more  grimly  strong  than  she  had  ever  before  realized  him  to 
be. 

He  stood  back  for  her  to  pass,  holding  the  door  for  her 
without  speaking.     And  in  silence  Avery  departed. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  STRAIGHT  TRUTH 

"  AH,  my  worthy  physician,  enter,  enter!"  was  Mr. 
f~\  Lorimer's  bland  greeting.  "What  news  of  the 
patient?" 

Tudor  tramped  up  to  the  hearth,  looking  very  square  and 
resolute.  "I've  come  from  the  schoolroom,"  he  said, 
"where  I  went  to  take  a  look  at  Jeanie.  But  I  found 
Gracie  required  more  of  my  attention  than  she  did.  Are 
you  absolutely  mad,  I  wonder,  to  inflict  corporal  punish 
ment  upon  a  highly-strung  child  like  that?  Let  me  tell 
you  this!  You'll  turn  her  into  a  senseless  idiot  if  you 
persist!  The  child  is  nearly  crazed  with  terror  as  it  is. 
I've  told  them  to  put  her  to  bed,  and  I'm  going  up  to  give 
her  a  soothing  draught  directly." 

Mr.  Lorimer  rose  with  dignity.  "You  somewhat  magnify 
your  office,  doctor,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  Tudor  rudely.  "I  do  what  I  must. 
And  I  warn  you  that  child  is  wrought  up  to  a  highly  danger 
ous  pitch  of  excitement.  You  don't  want  her  to  have 
brain-fever,  I  suppose?" 

"Pooh!"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 

Tudor  stamped  a  furious  foot,  and  let  himself  go.  He 
had  no  scruples  about  losing  his  temper  at  that  moment. 
He  poured  forth  his  indignation  in  a  perfect  tornado  of 
righteous  anger. 

"That's  all  you  have  to  say,  is  it?  You — a  man  of  God, 

172 


The  Straight  Truth  173 

so-called — killing  your  wife  by  inches  and  not  caring  a  damn 
what  suffering  you  cause !  I  tell  you,  she  has  been  at  death's 
door  all  day,  thanks  to  your  infernal  behaviour.  She 
may  die  yet,  and  you  will  be  directly  responsible.  You've 
crushed  her  systematically,  body  and  soul.  As  to  the 
children,  if  you  touch  that  little  girl  again — or  any  of  'em — 
I'll  haul  you  before  the  Bench  for  cruelty.  Do  you  hear 
that?" 

Mr.  Lorimer,  who  had  been  waving  a  protesting  hand 
throughout  this  vigorous  denunciation,  here  interposed 
a  lofty:  "Sir!  You  forget  yourself!" 

"Not  I!"  flung  back  Tudor.  "I  know  very  well  what 
I'm  about.  I  spoke  to  you  once  before  about  your  wife,  and 
you  wouldn't  listen.  But — by  Heaven — you  shall  listen 
this  time,  and  hear  the  straight  truth  for  once.  Her  life 
has  been  a  perpetual  martyrdom  for  years.  You've  tor 
tured  her  through  the  children  as  cruelly  as  any  victim 
was  ever  tortured  on  the  rack.  But  it's  got  to  stop  now. 
I  don't  deal  in  empty  threats.  What  I've  said  I  shall  stick 
to.  You  may  be  the  Vicar  of  the  parish,  but  you're  under 
the  same  law  as  the  poorest  of  'em.  And  if  anything 
more  of  this  kind  happens,  you  shall  feel  the  law.  And  a 
pretty  scandal  it'll  make." 

He  paused  a  moment,  but  Mr.  Lorimer  stood  in  frozen 
silence;  and  almost  immediately  he  plunged  on. 

"Now  as  regards  Mrs.  Denys;  I  heard  you  give  her  notice 
just  now.  That  must  be  taken  back — if  she  will  consent  to 
stay.  For  Mrs.  Lorimer  literally  can't  do  without  her  yet. 
Mrs.  Lorimer  will  be  an  invalid  for  some  time  to  come,  if 
not  for  good  and  all.  And  who  is  going  to  take  charge  of 
the  house  if  you  kick  out  the  only  capable  person  it  contains? 
Who  is  going  to  look  after  your  precious  comfort,  not  to 
mention  that  of  your  wife  and  children?  I  tell  you  Mrs. 
Denys  is  absolutely  indispensable  to  you  all  for  the  present. 
If  you  part  with  her,  you  part  with  every  shred  of  ease 


174  The  Bars  of  Iron 

and  domestic  peace  you  have.  And  you  will  have  to  keep 
a  properly  qualified  nurse  to  look  after  your  wife.  And  it 
isn't  every  nurse  that  is  a  blessing  in  the  home,  I  can  assure 
you." 

He  stopped  again;  and  finding  Mr.  Lorimer  still  some 
what  dazed  by  this  sudden  attack,  he  turned  and  began 
to  pace  the  room  to  give  him  time  to  recover. 

There  followed  a  prolonged  silence.  Then  at  last,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  the  Vicar  dropped  down  again  in  his  chair. 

"My  good  doctor,"  he  said,  "I  am  convinced  that  your 
motives  are  good  though  your  language  be  somewhat 
lacking  in  restraint.  I  am  sorely  perplexed;  let  me  admit 
it !  Mrs.  Denys  is,  I  believe,  a  thoroughly  efficient  house 
keeper,  but — "  he  paused  impressively — "her  presence  is 
a  disturbing  element  with'  which  I  would  gladly  dispense. 
She  is  continually  inventing  some  pretext  for  presenting 
herself  at  the  study-door.  Moreover,  she  is  extremely 
injudicious  with  the  children,  and  I  am  bound  to  think  of 
their  spiritual  welfare  before  their  mere  bodily  needs." 

He  was  evidently  anxious  to  avoid  an  open  rupture,  so 
perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  he  did  not  see  the  look  on  Tudor's 
face  as  he  listened  to  this  harangue. 

"Wh}>'  don't  you  pack  them  off  to  school?"  said  Tudor, 
sticking  to  the  point  with  commendable  resolution.  "  Peace 
in  the  house  is  absolutely  essential  to  Mrs.  Lorimer.  All 
the  elder  ones  would  be  better  out  of  it — with  the  exception 
of  Jeanie. " 

"And  why  with  the  exception  of  Jeanie,  may  I  ask?" 
There  was  a  touch  of  asperity  in  Mr.  Lorimer's  voice.  He 
had  been  badly  browbeaten,  and — for  some  reason — he 
had  had  to  submit.  But  he  was  in  no  docile  mood 
thereafter. 

Tudor  heard  the  note  of  resentment  in  his  tone,  and  came 
back  to  the  hearth.  "I  have  been  awaiting  a  suitable 
opportunity  to  talk  to  you  about  Jeanie, "  he  said. 


The  Straight  Truth  175 

"What  next?     What  next?"  said  Mr.  Lorimer  fretfully. 

Tudor  proceeded  to  tell  him,  his  tone  deliberately  unsym 
pathetic.  "She  needs  most  careful  treatment,  most 
vigilant  watching.  There  is  a  weakness  of  the  lungs  which 
might  develop  at  any  time.  Mrs.  Denys  understands  her 
and  can  take  care  of  her.  But  she  is  in  no  state  to  be 
entrusted  to  strangers. " 

"Why  was  this  not  mentioned  to  me  before?"  said  Mr. 
Lorimer  querulously.  "Though  the  head  of  the  house,  I 
am  always  the  last  to  be  told  of  anything  of  importance. 
I  suppose  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say  ? " 

" Quite  sure, "  said  Tudor,  "though  I  should  be  absolutely 
willing  for  you  to  have  another  opinion  at  any  time.  As 
to  not  telling  you,  I  have  always  found  it  difficult  to  get 
you  to  listen,  and,  as  a  rule,  I  have  no  time  to  waste  on  per 
suasion. "  He  looked  at  the  clock.  "I  ought  to  be  going 
now.  You  will  consider  what  I  have  said  about  sending  the 
other  children  away  to  school?  You'll  find  it's  the  only 
thing  to  do." 

Mr.  Lorimer  sighed  again  with  deep  melancholy. 

Tudor  squared  his  shoulders  aggressively.  "And  with 
your  permission  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Denys  that  you  have  recon 
sidered  the  matter  and  hope  she  will  remain  for  a  time  at 
least,  if  she  can  see  her  way  to  do  so." 

He  paused  very  definitely  for  a  reply  to  this.  Mr. 
Lorimer's  mouth  was  drawn  down  at  the  corners,  but  he 
looked  into  the  fire  with  the  aloofness  of  a  mind  not  occupied 
with  mundane  things. 

Tudor  faced  him  and  waited  with  grim  resolution;  but 
several  seconds  passed  ere  his  attitude  seemed  to  become 
apparent  to  the  abstracted  Vicar.  Then  with  extreme 
deliberation  his  eyelids  were  raised. 

"Excuse  me,  doctor !  My  thoughts  were  for  the  moment 
elsewhere.  Yes,  you  have  my  permission  to  tell  her  that. 
And — I  agree  with  you.  It  seems  advisable  to  remove 


1 76  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  elder  children  from  her  influence  without  delay.  I  shall 
therefore  take  steps  to  do  so." 

Tudor  nodded  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  It  did  not 
matter  to  him  in  what  garb  his  advice  was  dressed,  so  long 
as  it  was  followed. 

"Very  well, "  he  said.  " I  am  now  going  to  settle  Gracie, 
and  I  shall  tell  her  you  have  issued  a  free  pardon  all  round, 
and  no  more  will  be  said  to  anyone.  I  was  told  one  of  the 
boys  was  in  hot  water  too,  but  you  can  let  him  off  for  once. 
You're  much  more  likely  to  make  him  ashamed  of  himself 
that  way." 

Mr.  Lorimer  resumed  his  contemplation  of  the  fire 
without  speaking. 

Tudor  turned  to  go.  He  was  fairly  satisfied  that  he  had 
established  peace  for  the  time  being,  and  he  was  not  ill- 
pleased  with  his  success. 

He  told  himself  as  he  departed  that  he  had  discovered 
how  to  deal  with  the  Reverend  Stephen.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  attempt  such  treatment  before. 

To  Avery  later  he  gave  but  few  details  of  the  interview, 
but  she  could  not  fail  to  see  his  grim  elation  and  smiled  at  it. 

"  I  am  to  stay  then,  am  I?"  she  said. 

"If  you  will  graciously  consent  to  do  so,"  said  Tudor, 
with  his  brief  smile. 

"I  couldn't  do  anything  else,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that, "  he  said  abruptly,  "  for  my  own  sake. " 

And  with  that  very  suddenly  he  turned  the  subject. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  ENCHANTED  LAND 

AT  ten  o'clock  that  night,  Avery  went  round  to  bid 
each  child  good-night.  She  found  Gracie  sleeping 
peacefully  with  her  bed  pushed  close  to  Jeanie's.  The 
latter  was  awake  and  whispered  a  greeting.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  Olive  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  Avery 
did  not  pause  by  her  bed,  but  went  straight  to  Jeanie,  who 
held  her  hand  for  a  little  and  then  gently  begged  her  to  go 
to  bed  herself. 

"You  must  be  so  tired,"  she  said. 

Avery  could  not  deny  the  fact.  But  she  had  arranged  to 
sleep  in  Mrs.  Lorimer's  room,  so  she  could  not  look  forward 
to  a  night  without  care.  She  did  not  tell  Jeanie  this,  how 
ever,  but  presently  kissed  her  tenderly  and  stole  away. 

She  visited  the  younger  boys,  and  found  them  all  asleep; 
then  slipped  up  to  the  attic  in  which  the  elder  lads  slept. 

She  heard  their  voices  as  she  reached  the  closed  door. 
She  knocked  softly  therefore,  and  in  a  moment  heard  one  of 
them  leap  to  open  it. 

It  was  Ronald,  clad  in  pyjamas  but  unfailingly  courteous, 
who  invited  her  to  enter. 

"I  knew  it  must  be  you,  Mrs.  Denys.  Come  in!  Very 
pleased  to  see  you.  Wait  a  second  while  I  light  a  candle!" 

He  did  so,  and  revealed  Julian  sitting  up  in  bed  with 
sullen  defiance  writ  large  upon  his  face.  But  he  smiled 
at  sight  of  her,  and  patted  the  side  of  his  bed  invitingly. 

12  177 


178  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Don't  sit  on  the  chair!  It's  untrustworthy.  It's 
awfully  decent  of  you  to  look  us  up  like  this, — that  is,  if 
you  haven't  come  to  preach." 

"I  haven't,"  said  A  very,  accepting  the  invitation  since 
she  felt  too  weary  to  stand. 

Julian  nodded  approval.  "That's  right.  I  knew  you 
were  too  much  of  a  brick.  I'm  awaiting  my  next  swishing 
for  upsetting  my  cup  at  breakfast  in  your  defence,  so  I 
hardly  think  I  deserve  any  pi-jaw  from  you,  do  I?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  at  all  pi,  I  assure  you, "  A  very  said.  "And 
if  it  was  done  for  my  sake,  I'm  quite  grateful,  though  I  wish 
you  hadn't. " 

Julian  grinned  at  her,  and  she  proceeded. 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  wait  any  longer  for  the  swishing. 
Your  father  has  decided,  I  understand,  not  to  carry  the 
matter  any  further. " 

Julian  opened  his  eyes  wide.  "What?  You've  been 
at  him,  have  you?" 

A  very  smiled  even  while  she  sighed. 

"Oh,  I'm  no  good,  Julian.  t  I  only  make  things  worse 
when  I  interfere.  No,  it's  not  due  to  me.  But,  all  the 
same,  I  hope  and  believe  the  trouble  has  blown  over  for  the 
present.  Do — do  try  and  keep  the  peace  in  the  future!" 

Her  weariness  sounded  in  her  voice ;  it  quivered  in  spite 
of  her. 

Julian  placed  a  quick,  clammy  hand  on  hers  and  squeezed 
it  affectionately. 

"Anything  to  oblige!"  he  promised  generously.  "Here 
Ron!  Shy  over  those  letters!  She  wants  something  to 
cheer  her  up. " 

"Letters!"  Avery  looked  round  sharply.  "I  had  for 
gotten  my  letters!"  she  said. 

"Here  they  are!"  Ronald  came  fonvard  and  placed  them 
in  her  hand.  "I  picked  'em  up  this  morning,  and  then 
when  you  sent  me  off  for  the  doc,  I  forgot  all  about  'em. 


The  Enchanted  Land  179 

I'm  sorry.  I  only  came  across  them  when  I  was  undress 
ing,  and  you  were  busy  in  the  mater's  room,  so  I  thought 
I'd  keep  them  safe  till  to-morrow.  I  hope  they  are  not 
important,"  he  added. 

"I  don't  suppose  so,"  said  Avery;  yet  her  heart  jerked 
oddly  as  she  slipped  them  into  her  dress.  "Thank  you  for 
taking  care  of  them.  I  must  be  going  now.  You  are  going 
to  be  good?" 

She  looked  at  Julian,  who,  still  feeling  generous,  thrust  a 
rough,  boyish  arm  about  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"You're  a  trump!"  he  said.  "There!  Good-night! 
I'll  be  as  meek  as  Moses  in  the  morning. " 

It  was  a  definite  promise,  and  Avery  felt  relieved.  She 
took  leave  of  Ronald  more  ceremoniously.  His  scrupulous 
politeness  demanded  it.  And  then  with  feet  that  felt 
strangely  light,  considering  her  fatigue,  she  ran  softly  down 
again  to  Mrs.  Lorimer's  room. 

In  the  dressing-room  adjoining,  she  opened  and  read 
her  letters.  One  of  them — the  one  with  the  Australian  stamp, 
characteristically  brief  but  kind — was  to  tell  her  that  the 
writer,  a  friend  of  some  standing,  was  coming  to  England, 
and  hoped  to  see  her  again  ere  long. 

The  other,  bearing  the  sinister  Evesham  crest,  lay  on  the 
table  unopened  till  she  was  undressed  and  ready  to  join 
Mrs.  Lorimer.  Then — for  the  first  time  in  all  that  weary 
day  of  turmoil — Avery  stole  a  few  moments  of  luxury. 

She  sat  down  and  opened  Piers'  letter. 

It  began  impetuously,  without  preliminary.  "I  wonder 
whether  you  have  any  idea  what  it  costs  to  clear  out  without 
a  word  of  farewell.  Perhaps  you  are  even  thinking  that 
I've  forgotten.  Or  perhaps  it  matters  so  little  to  you 
that  you  haven't  thought  at  all.  I  know  you  won't  tell  me, 
so  it's  not  much  good  speculating.  But  lest  you  should 
misunderstand  in  any  way,  I  want  to  explain  that  I  haven't 
been  fit  to  come  near  you  since  we  parted  on  Christmas 


i8o  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Eve.  You  were  angry  with  me  then,  weren't  you?  Avery 
in  a  temper!  Do  you  remember  how  it  went?  At  least 
you  meant  to  be,  but  somehow  you  didn't  get  up  the  steam. 
You  wished  me  a  happy  Christmas  instead,  and  I  ought 
to  have  had  one  in  consequence.  But  I  didn't.  I  played 
the  giddy  goat  off  and  on  all  day  long,  and  my  grandfather — • 
dear  old  chap — thought  what  a  merry  infant  I  was.  But— 
you've  heard  of  the  worm  that  dieth  not  and  the  fire  that 
is  not  quenched?  The  Reverend  Stephen  has  taken  care 
of  that.  Do  you  remember  his  'penny-terrible'  of  a  Sunday 
or  two  ago?  You  were  very  angry  about  it,  Avery.  I  love 
you  when  you're  angry.  And  how  he  dilated  on  the  gates  of 
brass  and  the  bars  of  iron  and  the  outer  darkness  etc.,  etc., 
till  we  all  went  home  and  shivered  in  our  beds!  Well,  that's 
the  sort  of  place  I  spent  my  Christmas  in,  and  I  wanted 
to  come  to  you  and  Jeanie  and  be  made  happy,  but — I 
couldn't.  I  was  too  fast  in  prison.  I  felt  too  murderous. 
I  hunted  all  the  next  day  to  try  and  get  more  wholesome. 
But  it  was  no  good.  I  was  seeing  red  all  the  time.  And  at 
night  something  happened  that  touched  me  off  like  an 
exploded  train  of  gunpowder.  Has  Tudor  told  you  about 
it  yet?  Doubtless  he  will.  I  tried  to  murder  him,  and 
succeeded  in  cracking  his  eye-glass.  Banal,  wasn't  it? 
And  I  have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  came  out  top-dog  after 
all,  confound  him! 

"Avery,  whomever  else  you  have  no  use  for,  I  know  you're 
not  in  love  with  him,  and  in  my  saner  moments  I  realize 
that  you  never  could  be.  But  I  wasn't  sane  just  then.  I 
love  you  so !  I  love  you  so !  It's  good  to  be  able  to  get  it 
right  out  before  you  have  time  to  stop  me.  For  I  worship 
you,  Avery,  my  darling!  You  don't  realize  it.  How 
should  you?  You  think  it  is  just  the  passing  fancy  of  a  boy. 
A  boy — ye  gods! 

"I  think  of  you  hour  by  hour.  You  are  always  close  in 
your  own  secret  place  in  my  heart.  I  hold  you  in  my  arms 


The  Enchanted  Land  181 

when  no  one  else  is  near.  I  kiss  your  forehead,  your  eyes, 
your  hair.  No,  not  your  lips,  dear,  even  in  fancy.  I  have 
never  in  my  maddest  dreams  kissed  your  lips.  But  I  ache 
and  crave  and  long  for  them,  though — till  you  give  me 
leave — I  dare  not  even  pretend  that  they  are  mine.  Will 
you  ever  give  me  leave?  You  say  No  now.  Yet  I  think 
you  will,  Avery.  I  think  you  will.  I  have  known  ever 
since  that  first  moment  when  you  held  me  back  from  flaying 
poor  old  Caesar  that  I  have  met  my  Fate,  and  because  I 
know  it  I'm  trying — for  your  sweet  sake — to  make  myself 
a  better  man.  It's  beastly  uphill  work,  and  that  episode 
with  Tudor  has  pulled  me  back.  Confound  him!  By  the 
way  though,  it's  done  me  good  in  one  sense,  for  I  find  I  don't 
detest  him  quite  so  hideously  as  I  did.  The  man  has  his 
points. 

"And  now  Avery, — dear  Avery,  will  you  forgive  me  for 
writing  all  this?  I  know  you  won't  write  to  me,  but  I  send 
my  address  in  case!  And  I  shall  watch  every  mail  day 
after  day,  night  after  night,  for  the  letter  that  will  never 
come. 

"Pathetic  picture,  isn't  it?     Good-bye! 

"  PIERS. 

"My  love  to  the  Queen  of  all  good  fairies,  and  tell  Pixie 
that  I  hope  the  gloves  fitted." 

Avery 's  lips  parted  in  a  smile;  a  soft  flush  overspread  her 
face.  That  costly  gift  from  the  children — she  had  guessed 
from  the  beginning  whence  it  came. 

And  then  slowly,  even  with  reverence,  she  folded  the 
letter  up,  and  rose.  Her  smile  became  a  little  tremulous. 
It  had  been  a  day  of  many  troubles,  and  she  was  very  tired. 
The  boy's  adoration  was  strangely  sweet  to  her  wearied 
senses.  She  felt  subtly  softened  and  tender  towards  him. 

No,  it  must  not  be!  It  could  not  be!  He  must  forget 
her.  She  would  write  to-morrow  and  tell  him  so. 


1 82  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Yet  for  that  one  night  the  charm  held  her.  She  viewed 
from  afar  an  enchanted  land — a  land  of  sunshine  and 
singing  birds — a  land  where  it  was  always  spring.  It  was  a 
country  she  had  seen  before,  but  only  in  her  dreams.  Her 
feet  had  never  wandered  there.  The  path  she  had  followed 
had  not  led  to  it.  Perhaps  it  was  all  a  mirage.  Perhaps 
there  was  no  path. 

Yet  in  her  dreams  she  crossed  the  boundary,  and  entered 
the  forbidden  land. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   COMING   OF   A   FRIEND 

TERNAL  sunshine!"  said  Piers,  with  a  grimace  at 
the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the  slumbering  water  that 
stretched  below  him  to  the  horizon.  "And  at  night  eter 
nal  moonshine.  Romantic  but  monotonous.  I  wonder  if 
the  post  is  in. " 

He  cast  an  irresolute  glance  up  the  path  behind  him, 
but  decided  to  remain  where  he  was.  He  had  looked  so 
many  times  in  vain. 

There  were  a  good  many  people  in  the  hotel,  but  he  was 
not  feeling  sociable.  The  night  before  he  had  dropped  a 
considerable  sum  at  the  Casino,  but  it  had  not  greatly 
interested  him.  Regretfully  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  gambling  in  that  form  did  not  attract  him.  The 
greedy  crowd  that  pushed  and  strove  in  the  heated  rooms, 
he  regarded  as  downright  revolting.  He  himself  had  been 
robbed  with  astonishing  audacity  by  a  lady  with  painted 
eyes  who  had  snatched  his  only  winnings  before  he  could 
reach  them.  It  was  a  small  episode,  and  he  had  let  it  pass, 
but  it  had  not  rendered  the  tables  more  attractive.  He 
had  in  fact  left  them  in  utter  disgust. 

Altogether  he  was  feeling  decidedly  out  of  tune  with  his 
surroundings  that  morning,  and  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
irritated  rather  than  soothed  him.  In  the  garden  a  short 
distance  from  him,  a  voluble  French  party  were  chattering 
with  great  animation  and  a  good  deal  of  cackling  laughter. 

183 


1 84  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  wondered  what  on  earth  they  found  to  amuse  them  so 
persistently.  He  also  wondered  if  a  swim  in  that  faultless 
blue  would  do  anything  to  improve  his  temper,  and  decided 
with  another  wry  grimace  that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to 
try. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  there  fell  a  step  on  the  winding 
path  below  him  that  led  down  amongst  shrubs  to  the  sea. 
The  top  of  a  Panama  hat  caught  Piers'  attention.  He 
watched  it  idly  as  it  ascended,  speculating  without  much 
interest  as  to  the  face  beneath  it.  It  mounted  with  the 
utmost  steadiness,  neither  hastening  nor  lingering.  There 
was  something  about  its  unvarying  progress  that  struck 
Piers  as  British.  His  interest  increased  at  once.  He 
suddenly  discovered  that  he  wanted  someone  British  to 
talk  to,  forgetting  the  fact  that  he  had  fled  but  ten  minutes 
before  from  the  boring  society  of  an  Anglo-Indian  colonel. 

The  man  in  the  Panama  came  nearer.  Piers  from  above 
began  to  have  a  glimpse  of  a  tweed  coat  and  a  strong 
brown  hand  that  swung  in  time  to  the  steady  stride.  The 
path  curved  immediately  below  him,  and  the  last  few  yards 
of  it  led  directly  to  the  spot  on  which  he  stood.  As  the 
stranger  rounded  the  curve  he  came  into  full  view. 

He  was  a  big  man,  broadly  built  and  powerful.  His 
whole  personality  was  suggestive  of  squareness.  And  yet  to 
Piers'  critical  eyes  he  did  not  look  wholly  British.  His  gait 
was  that  of  a  man  accustomed  to  long  hours  in  the  saddle. 
Under  the  turned-down  Panama  the  square,  determined 
chin  showed  massively.  It  was  a  chin  that  obviously 
required  constant  shaving. 

Quietly  the  man  drew  near.  He  did  not  see  Piers  under 
his  lowered  hat-brim  till  he  was  within  a  few  feet  of  him. 
Then,  becoming  suddenly  aware  of  him,  he  raised  his  eyes. 
A  moment  later,  his  hand  went  up  in  a  brief,  friendly 
salute. 

Piers'  hand  made  instant  response.     "Splendid  morn- 


The  Coming  of  a  Friend  185 

ing!"  he  began  to  say — and  stopped  with  the  words  half- 
uttered.  The  blood  surged  up  to  his  forehead  in  a  great 
wave.  "Good  Heavens!"  he  said  instead. 

The  other  man  paused.  He  did  not  look  at  Piers  very 
narrowly,  but  merely  glanced  towards  him  and  then  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  wonderful,  far-stretching  blue  below 
them. 

"Yes,  splendid, "  he  said  quietly.  "Worth  remembering 
— a  scene  like  this. " 

His  tone  was  absolutely  impersonal.  He  stood  beside 
Piers  for  a  moment  or  two,  gazing  forth  into  the  infinite 
distance;  then  with  a  slight  gesture  of  leave-taking  he 
turned  as  if  to  continue  his  progress. 

In  that  instant,  however,  Piers  recovered  himself  suffi 
ciently  to  speak.  His  face  was  still  deeply  flushed,  but  his 
voice  was  steady  enough  as  he  turned  fully  and  addressed 
the  new-comer. 

"  Don't  you  know  me?    We  have  met  before. " 

The  other  man  stopped  at  once.  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"Yes,  of  course  I  know  you — knew  you  the  moment  I  set 
eyes  on  you.  But  I  wasn't  sure  that  you  would  care  to  be 
recognized  by  me. " 

"What  on  earth  do  you  take  me  for?"  said  Piers 
bluntly. 

He  gripped  the  hand  hard,  looking  straight  into  the  calm 
eyes  with  a  curious  sense  of  being  sustained  thereby.  "I 
believe,"  he  said,  with  an  odd  impulse  of  impetuosity, 
"that  you  are  the  one  man  in  the  world  that  I  couldn't  be 
other  than  pleased  to  see." 

The  elder  man  smiled.  "That's  very  kind  of  you,"  he 
said. 

He  had  the  slow  speech  of  one  accustomed  to  solitude. 
He  kept  Piers'  hand  in  his  in  a  warm,  firm  grip.  "I  have 
often  thought  about  you,"  he  said.  "You  know,  I  never 
heard  your  name." 


i86  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"My  name  is  Evesham, "  said  Piers,  with  the  quick, 
gracious  manner  habitual  to  him.  "Piers  Evesham." 

"Thank  you.  Mine  is  Edmund  Crowther.  Odd  that 
we  should  meet  like  this!" 

"A  piece  of  luck  I  didn't  expect!"  said  Piers  boyishly. 
"Have  you  only  just  arrived?" 

"I  came  here  last  night  from  Marseilles."  Crowther's 
eyes  rested  on  the  smiling  face  with  its  proud,  patrician 
features  with  the  look  of  a  man  examining  a  perfect  bronze. 
"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  welcome  me  like  this,"  he  said. 
"I  was  feeling  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  as  I  came  up 
that  path." 

"I've  been  watching  you,"  said  Piers.  "I  liked  the 
business-like  way  you  tackled  it.  It  was  British." 

Crowther  smiled.  "I  suppose  it  has  become  second 
nature  with  me  to  put  business  first, "  he  said. 

"Wish  I  could  say  the  same,"  said  Piers;  and  then,  with 
his  hand  on  the  other  man's  arm:  " Come  and  have  a  drink! 
You  are  staying  for  some  time,  I  hope?" 

"No,  not  for  long,"  said  Crowther.  "It  was  yielding  to 
temptation  to  come  here  at  all. " 

"Are  you  alone?"  asked  Piers. 

"  Quite  alone. " 

"Then  there's  no  occasion  to  hurry,"  said  Piers.  <:You 
stay  here  for  a  bit,  and  kill  time  with  me. " 

"I  never  kill  time,"  said  Crowther  deliberately.  "It's 
too  scarce  a  commodity." 

"It  is  when  you're  happy,"  said  Piers. 

Crowther  looked  at  him  with  a  question  in  his  eyes  that 
he  did  not  put  into  words,  and  in  answer  to  which  Piers 
laughed  a  reckless  laugh. 

They  were  walking  side  by  side  up  the  hotel-garden,  and 
each  successive  group  of  visitors  that  they  passed  turned  to 
stare.  For  both  men  were  in  a  fashion  remarkable.  The 
massive  strength  of  the  elder  with  his  square,  dogged  face 


The  Coming  of  a  Friend  187 

and  purposeful  stride;  the  lithe,  muscular  power  of  the 
younger  with  his  superb  carriage  and  haughty  nobility  o£ 
feature,  formed  a  contrast  as  complete  as  it  was  arresting. 

They  ascended  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  terrace,  and 
here  Piers  paused.  "You  sit  down  here  while  I  go  and 
order  drinks!  Here's  a  comfortable  seat,  and  here's  an 
English  paper!" 

He  thrust  it  into  Crowther's  hand  and  departed  with  a 
careless  whistle  on  his  lips.  But  Crowther  did  not  look  at 
the  paper.  His  eyes  followed  Piers  as  long  as  he  was  in 
sight,  and  then  with  that  look  in  them  as  of  one  who 
watches  from  afar  turned  contemplatively  towards  the  sea. 
After  a  little  he  took  his  hat  off  and  suffered  the  morning- 
breeze  to  blow  across  his  forehead.  He  had  the  serene  brow 
of  a  child,  though  the  hair  above  it  was  broadly  streaked 
with  grey. 

He  was  still  sitting  thus  when  there  came  the  sound  of 
jerky  footsteps  on  the  terrace  behind  him  and  an  irascible 
voice  addressed  him  with  scarcely  concealed  impatience. 

"Excuse  me!  I  saw  you  talking  to  my  grandson  just 
now.  Do  you  know  where  the  young  fool  is  gone 
to?" 

Crowther  turned  in  his  solid,  imperturbable  fashion, 
looked  at  the  speaker,  and  got  to  his  feet. 

"I  can, "  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "He  has  gone  to  procure 
drinks  in  my  honour.  He  and  I  are — old  friends." 

"Oh!"  said  Sir  Beverley,  and  looked  him  up  and  down  in 
a  fashion  which  another  man  might  have  found  offensive. 
"And  who  may  you  be?" 

"My  name  is  Crowther,"  said  the  other  with  simplicity. 

Sir  Beverley  grunted.  "That  doesn't  tell  me  much. 
Never  heard  of  you  before. " 

"I  daresay  not."  Crowther  was  quite  unmoved;  there 
was  even  a  hint  of  humour  in  his  tone.  "Your  grandson 
is  probably  a  man  of  many  friends. " 


1 88  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Why  should  you  say  that?"  demanded  Sir  Beverley 
suspiciously. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Crowther. 

Sir  Beverley  hesitated  a  moment,  then  abruptly  complied 
with  the  suggestion.  Crowther  followed  his  example,  and 
they  faced  one  another  across  the  little  table. 

"  I  say  it,  "  said  Crowther,  "because  that  is  the  sort  of  lad 
I  take  him  to  be." 

Sir  Beverley  grunted  again.  "And  when  and  where  did 
you  make  his  acquaintance?"  he  enquired,  with  a  stern, 
unsparing  scrutiny  of  the  calm  face  opposite. 

"We  met  in  Australia,"  said  Crowther.  "It  must  be 
six  years  or  more  ago. " 

"Australia's  a  big  place, "  observed  Sir  Beverley. 

Crowther's  slow  smile  appeared.  "Yes,  sir,  it  is.  It's 
so  mighty  big  that  it  makes  all  the  other  places  of  the  world 
seem  small.  Have  you  ever  been  in  Queensland — ever 
seen  a  sheep-farm?" 

"No,  I've  never  been  in  Queensland,"  snapped  Sir 
Beverley.  "But  as  to  sheep-farms,  I've  got  one  of  my 
own. " 

"How  many  acres?"  asked  Crowther. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!  Piers  will  tell  you.  Piers  knows. 
Where  the  devil  is  the  boy?  Why  doesn't  he  come?" 

"Here,  sir,  here!"  cried  Piers,  coming  up  behind  him. 
"I  see  you  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  friend. 
Crowther,  let  me  present  you  to  my  grandfather,  SirBeverley 
Evesham!  I've  just  been  to  look  for  you,"  he  added  to 
the  latter.  "But  Victor  told  me  you  had  gone  out,  and  then 
I  spied  you  out  of  the  window. " 

"I  told  you  I  was  coming  out,  didn't  I?"  growled  Sir 
Beverley.  "So  this  is  a  friend  of  yours,  is  it?  How  is  it 
I've  never  heard  of  him  before?" 

"We  lost  sight  of  each  other,"  explained  Piers,  pulling 
forward  a  chair  between  them  and  dropping  into  it.  ''But 


The  Coming  of  a  Friend  189 

that  state  of  affairs  is  not  going  to  happen  again.  How 
long  are  you  over  for,  Crowther?" 

"Possibly  a  year,  possibly  more."  Again  Crowther's 
eyes  were  upon  him,  critical  but  kindly. 

"Going  to  spend  your  time  in  England? "  asked  Piers. 

Crowther  nodded.     "  Most  of  it,  yes. " 

"Good!"  said  Piers  with  satisfaction.  "We  shall  see 
plenty  of  you  then." 

"But  I  am  going  to  be  busy,"  said  Crowther,  with  a 
smile. 

"Of  course  you  are.  You  can  come  down  and  teach  me 
how  to  make  the  Home  Farm  a  success,"  laughed  Piers. 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  try,"  said  Crowther, ' '  though," 
he  turned  towards  Sir  Beverlcy,  "I  expect  you,  sir,  know 
as  much  on  that  subject  as  either  of  us. 

Sir  Beverley's  eyes  were  upon  him  with  searching  direct 
ness.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  discover  a  reason  for  his 
boy's  obvious  pleasure  in  his  unexpected  meeting  with  this 
man  who  must  have  been  nearly  twice  his  age. 

"I've  never  done  much  in  the  farming  line,"  he  said 
briefly,  in  answer  to  Crowther's  observation.  "It's  been 
more  of  a  pastime  with  me  than  anything  else.  It's  the 
same  with  Piers  here.  He's  only  putting  in  time  with  it  till 
the  constituency  falls  vacant." 

"I -see,"  said  Crowther,  adding  with  his  quiet  smile: 
"There  seems  to  be  plenty  of  time  anyhow  in  the  old 
country,  whatever  else  she  may  be  short  of. " 

Piers  laughed  as  he  lifted  his  glass.  "Time  for  every 
thing  but  work,  Crowther.  She  has  developed  beastly  loose 
morals  in  her  old  age.  Some  day  there'll  come  a  nasty  bust 
up,  and  she  may  pull  herself  together  and  do  things  again, 
or  she  may  go  to  pieces.  I  wonder  which. " 

"I  don't,"  said  Crowther. 

"You  don't?"  Piers  paused,  glass  in  hand,  looking  at  him 
expectantly. 


190  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"  No,  I  don't. "  Crowther  also  raised  his  glass;  he  looked 
Piers  straight  in  the  eyes.  "  Here's  to  the  boys  of  England, 
Piers!"  he  said.  "They'll  see  to  it  that  she  comes  through." 

Sir  Beverley  also  drank,  but  with  a  distasteful  air. 
"You've  a  higher  opinion  of  the  young  fools  than  I  have, " 
he  remarked. 

"I've  made  a  study  of  the  breed,  sir,"  said    Crowther. 

The  conversation  drifted  to  indifferent  matters,  but 
Piers'  interest  remained  keen.  It  seemed  that  all  his 
vitality  had  reawakened  at  the  coming  of  this  slow-speak 
ing  man  who  had  looked  so  long  upon  the  wide  spaces  of 
the  earth  that  his  vision  seemed  scarcely  adaptable  to  lesser 
things.  There  was  that  in  his  personality  that  caught 
Piers'  fancy  irresistibly.  Perhaps  it  was  his  utter  calmness, 
his  unvarying,  rock-like  strength.  Perhaps  it  was  just 
the  good  fellowship  that  looked  out  of  the  steady  eyes  and 
sounded  in  every  tone  of  the  leisurely  voice.  Whatever 
the  cause,  his  presence  had  made  a  vast  difference  to  Piers. 
His  boredom  had  completely  vanished.  He  even  forgot 
to  wonder  if  there  were  a  letter  lying  waiting  for  him  inside 
the  hotel. 

Crowther  excused  himself  at  length  and  rose  to  take 
his  leave,  whereupon  Sir  Beverley  very  abruptly,  and  to  his 
grandson's  surprise  and  gratification,  invited  him  to  dine 
with  them  that  night.  Piers  at  once  seconded  the  invitation, 
and  Crowther  without  haste  or  hesitation  accepted  it. 

Then,  square  and  purposeful,  he  went  away. 

"A  white  man!"  murmured  Piers  half  to  himself. 

"One  who  knows  his  own  mind  anyhow,"  remarked  Sir 
Beverley  drily. 

He  did  not  ask  Piers  for  the  history  of  their  friendship, 
and  Piers,  remembering  this  later,  wondered  a  little  at  the 
omission. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
A   FRIEND'S    COUNSEL 

WHEN  Piers  went  to  dress  that  night  he  found  two 
letters  laid  discreetly  upon  his  table,  awaiting 
perusal. 

Victor,  busily  engaged  in  laying  out  his  clothes,  cast  a 
wicked  eye  back  over  his  shoulder  as  his  young  master 
pounced  upon  them,  then  with  a  shrug  resumed  his  task, 
smiling  to  himself  the  while. 

Both  letters  were  addressed  in  womanly  handwriting, 
but  Piers  went  unerringly  to  the  one  he  most  desired  to 
read.  His  hands  shook  a  little  as  he  opened  it,  but  he 
caught  sight  of  his  Christian  name  at  the  head  of  it  and 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"©ear  Piers," — so  in  clear,  decided  writing  the  message 
ran, — "I  have  wondered  many  times  if  I  ought  to  be  angry 
as  well  as  sorry  over  that  letter  of  yours.  It  was  audacious, 
wasn't  it?  Only  I  know  so  well  that  you  did  not  mean 
to  hurt  me  when  you  wrote  it.  But,  Piers,  what  I  said 
before,  you  compel  me  to  say  again.  This  thing  must  stop. 
You  say  you  are  not  a  boy,  so  I  shall  not  treat  you  as  such. 
But  indeed  you  must  take  my  word  for  it  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  shall  never  marry  again. 

"I  want  to  be  quite  honest  with  you,  so  you  mustn't 
think  that  my  two  years  of  married  life  were  by  any  means 
idyllic.  They  were  not.  The  man  I  married  was  a  failure, 

191 


192  The  Bars  of  Iron 

but  I  loved  him,  and  because  I  loved  him  I  followed  him  'to 
the  world's  end.  We  were  engaged  two  years  before  we 
married.  My  father  disapproved;  but  when  he  died  I 
was  left  lonely,  so  I  followed  Eric,  whom  I  had  not  seen 
for  eighteen  months,  to  Australia.  We  were  married  in 
Sydney.  He  had  work  at  that  time  in  a  shipping-office,  but 
he  did  not  manage  to  keep  it.  I  did  not  know  why  at  first. 
I  was  young,  and  I  had  always  led  a  sheltered  life.  Then 
one  night  I  found  that  he  had  been  drinking,  and  after  that 
I  understood — many  things.  I  think  I  know  what  you  will 
say  of  him  when  you  read  this.  It  looks  so  crude  written. 
But,  Piers,  he  was  not  a  bad  man.  He  had  this  one  fatal 
weakness,  but  he  loved  me,  and  he  was  good  to  me  nearly 
always." 

Piers'  teeth  closed  suddenly  and  fiercely  on  his  lower  lip 
at  this  point;  but  he  read  on  grimly  with  no  other  sign  of 
indignation. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  I  took  upon  myself  once  to  warn 
you  against  losing  your  self-control?"  The  handwriting 
was  not  quite  so  steady  here;  the  letters  looked  hurried, 
as  if  some  agitation  had  possessed  the  writer.  "I  felt  I  had 
to  do  it,  for  I  had  seen  a  man's  life  completely  wrecked 
through  it.  I  know  he  was  one  of  the  many  that  go  under 
every  day,  but  the  tragedy  was  so  near  me.  I  have  never 
quite  been  able  to  shake  off  the  dreadful  memories  of  it. 
He  was  to  all  outward  appearance  a  strong-willed  man, 
but  that  habit  was  stronger,  though  he  fought  and  fought 
against  it.  When  he  failed,  he  seemed  to  lose  everything, — 
self-respect,  self-control,  strength  of  purpose, — everything. 
But  when  the  demon  left  him,  he  always  repented  so  bitterly, 
so  bitterly.  I  had  a  little  money,  enough  to  live  on.  He 
used  to  urge  me  to  leave  him,  to  go  back  to  England,  and 
1  ve  in  peace.  As  if  I  could  have  done  such  a  thing!  And 
so  we  struggled  on,  making  a  desperately  hard  fight  for  it, 
till  one  awful  night  when  he  came  home  in  raving  delirium. 


A  Friend's  Counsel  193 

I  can't  describe  that  to  you.  I  don't  want  you  to  know 
what  it  was  like.  I  nursed  him  through  it,  but  it  was 
terrible.  He  did  not  always  know  what  he  was  doing. 
A't  times  he  was  violent. " 

A  drop  of  blood  suddenly  ran  down  Piers'  chin ;  he  pulled 
out  his  handkerchief  sharply  and  wiped  it  away,  still 
reading  on. 

"He  got  over  it,  but  it  broke  him.  He  knew — we  both 
knew — that  things  were  hopeless.  We  tried  for  a  time  to 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  fact,  but  it  remained.  And  then  one 
day  very  suddenly  he  roused  himself  and  told  me  that  he 
had  heard  of  a  job  up-country  and  was  going  to  it.  I  could 
not  stop  him.  I  could  not  even  go  with  him.  And  so — for 
the  first  time  since  our  marriage — we  parted.  He  promised 
to  come  back  to  me  for  the  birth  of  our  child.  But  before 
that  happened  he  was  dead,  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl. 
It  was  just  what  I  had  always  feared — the  tragedy  that 
overhung  us  from  the  beginning.  Piers,  that's  all.  I've 
told  it  very  badly.  But  I  felt  you  must  know  how  my 
romance  died;  and  how  impossible  it  is  that  I  should  ever 
have  another.  It  didn't  break  my  heart.  It  wasn't 
sudden  enough  for  that.  And  now  that  he  is  gone,  I  can 
see  it  is  best.  But  the  manner  of  his  going — that  was  the 
dreadful  part.  I  told  you  about  my  baby  girl,  how  she 
was  born  blind,  and  how  five  years  ago  she  died. 

"  So  now  you  know  my  little  tragic  history  from  beginning 
to  end.  There  is  no  accounting  for  love.  We  follow  our 
instincts,  I  suppose.  But  it  leads  us  sometimes  along  paths 
that  we  could  never  bear  to  travel  twice.  Is  there  any  pain, 
I  wonder,  like  the  pain  of  disillusionment,  of  seeing  the 
beloved  idol  lying  in  the  dust?  This  is  a  selfish  point  of 
view,  I  know;  but  I  want  you  to  realize  that  you  have  made 
a  mistake.  Dear  Piers,  I  am  very,  very  sorry  it  has 
happened.  No,  not  angry  at  all;  somehow  I  can't  be 
angry.  It's  such  a  difficult  world  to  live  in,  and  there  are 


194  The  Bars  of  Iron 

so  many  influences  at  work.  But  you  must  forget  this  wish 
of  yours  indeed — indeed.  I  am  too  old,  too  experienced, 
too  worldly-wise,  too  prosaic  for  you  in  every  way.  You 
must  marry  a  girl  who  has  never  loved  before.  You  must 
have  the  first  and  best  of  a  woman's  heart.  You  must  have 
'The  True  Romance.' 

"That,  Piers,  will  always  be  the  wish  and  prayer  of 

"Your  loving  friend, 

"AVERY." 

Piers'  hands  were  steady  enough  now.  There  was  some 
thing  slow  and  fatalistic  in  the  way  they  folded  the  letter. 
He  looked  up  from  it  at  length  with  dark  eyes  that 
gazed  unwaveringly  before  him,  as  though  they  saw  a 
vision. 

"You  will  be  late,  Monsieur  Pierre/'  suggested  Victor 
softly  at  his  elbow. 

"What?"  Piers  turned  those  dreaming  eyes  upon  him, 
and  suddenly  he  laughed  and  stretched  his  arms  wide  as  one 
awaking.  The  steadfast  look  went  out  of  his  eyes;  they 
danced  with  gaiety.  "Hullo,  you  old  joker!  Well, 
let's  dress  then  and  be  quick -about  it!" 

During  the  process  it  flashed  upon  Piers  that  all  mention 
of  Tudor  had  been  avoided  in  the  letter  he  had  just  read. 
He  frowned  momentarily  at  the  thought.  Had  she  deliber 
ately  avoided  the  subject?  And  if  so — But  on  the  instant 
his  brow  cleared  again.  No,  she  had  written  too  frankly 
for  that.  She  had  not  mentioned  the  matter  simply  because 
she  regarded  it  as  unimportant.  The  great  question  lay 
between  herself  and  him  alone.  Of  that  he  was  wholly 
certain.  He  smiled  again  at  the  thought.  No,  he  was  not 
afraid  of  Tudor. 

"Monsieur  is  well  pleased,"  murmured  Victor,  with  a 
flash  of  his  round  black  eyes. 

'Quite  well  pleased,  mon  vieux!"  laughed  back  Piers, 


A  Friend's  Counsel  195 

"C'est  bien!"  said  Victor,  regarding  him  with  the  indul 
gent  smile  that  he  had  bestowed  upon  him  in  babyhood. 
"And  Monsieur  does  not  want  his  other  letter?  But  no — 
no!" 

His  voice  was  openly  quizzical;  he  dodged  a  laughing 
backhander  from  Piers  with  a  neat  gesture  of  apology.  It 
had  not  escaped  his  notice  that  the  letter  Piers  had  read 
had  disappeared  unobtrusively  into  an  inner  pocket. 

"Who's  the  other  letter  from?"  said  Piers,  glancing  at  it 
perfunctorily.  "Oh,  I  know.  No  one  of  importance. 
She'll  keep  till  after  dinner." 

Ina  Rose  would  not  have  felt  flattered  had  she  heard  the 
statement.  The  fan  Piers  had  promised  to  send  her  had 
duly  arrived  from  Paris  with  a  brief — very  brief — note  from 
him,  requesting  her  acceptance  of  it.  She  had  written  in 
reply  a  letter  which  she  had  been  at  some  pains  to  compose, 
graciously  accepting  the  gift  and  suggesting  that  an  account 
of  any  adventures  that  befell  him  would  be  received  by  her 
with  interest.  She  added  that,  a  spell  of  frost  having  put 
an  end  to  the  hunting,  life  at  Wardenhurst  had  become 
extremely  flat,  and  she  had  begun  to  envy  Piers  in  his  exile. 
Her  father  was  talking  of  going  to  Mentone  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  wanted  her  to  accompany  him.  But  she  was  not  sure 
that  she  would  care  for  it.  What  did  Piers  think? 

When  Piers  did  eventually  read  the  letter,  he  smiled  at 
this  point, — a  smile  that  was  not  altogether  good  to  see. 
He  was  just  going  out  to  the  Casino  with  Crowther.  The 
latter  had  gone  to  fetch  a  coat,  and  he  had  occupied  the  few 
moments  of  waiting  with  Ina's  letter. 

He  was  still  smiling  over  the  open  page  when  Crowther 
joined  him;  but  he  folded  the  letter  at  once,  and  they  went 
out  together. 

"Have  you  had  any  luck  at  the  tables?"  Crowther  asked. 

"None,"  said  Piers.  "At  least  I  won,  eventually,  but 
Fate,  in  the  form  of  a  powdered  and  bedizened  female 


196  The  Bars  of  Iron 

snatched  the  proceeds  before  I  got  the  chance.  A  bad 
omen,  what?" 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Crowther. 

There  was  a  touch  of  savagery  in  Piers'  laugh.  "It 
won't  happen  again,  anyhow, "  he  said. 

They  entered  the  Casino  with  its  brilliant  rooms  and 
pushing  crowds.  The  place  was  thronged.  As  they 
entered,  a  woman  with  a  face  of  evil  beauty,  pressed  close 
to  Piers  and  spoke  a  word  or  two  in  French.  But  he  looked 
at  her  and  through  her  with  royal  disdain,  and  so  passed 
her  by. 

They  made  their  way  to  the  table  at  which  Piers  had 
tried  his  luck  the  previous  night,  waited  for  and  finally 
secured  a  place. 

"You  take  it ! "  said  Crowther.     "  I  believe  in  your  luck. " 

Piers  laughed.  He  staked  five  francs  on  the  figure  five 
and  lost,  doubled  his  stakes  and  lost  again,  trebled  them 
and  lost  again. 

"This  is  getting  serious,"  said  Crowther. 

But  still  Piers  laughed.  " Damn  it !"  he  said.  "I  will  win 
to-night!" 

"Try  another  figure!"  said  Crowther. 

But  Piers  refused.  He  laid  down  twenty-five  francs, 
and  with  that  he  won.  It  was  the  turning-point.  From 
that  moment  it  seemed  he  could  not  do  wrong.  Stake 
after  stake  he  won,  either  with  his  own  money,  or 
Crowther's;  and  finally  left  the  table  in  triumph  with  full 
pockets. 

A  good  many  watched  him  enviously  as  he  went.  He 
refused  to  try  his  luck  elsewhere,  but  went  arrogantly  away 
with  his  hand  through  Crowther's  arm. 

"He'll  come  back  to-morrow,"  observed  a  shrewd 
American.  "And  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  He's  just 
the  sort  that  helps  to  keep  this  establishment  going.  They'll 
pick  him  clean. ' ' 


A  Friend's  Counsel  197 

But  he  was  wrong.  Though  elated  by  victory,  Piers  was 
not  drawn  by  the  gambling  vice.  The  thing  amused  him, 
but  it  did  not  greatly  attract.  He  was  by  no  means  dazzled 
by  the  spoils  he  carried  away. 

They  went  out  to  the  gardens,  and  called  for  liqueurs. 
The  woman  who  had  spoken  to  Piers  yet  hovered  about 
the  doors.  She  cursed  him  through  her  painted  lips  as  he 
passed,  but  he  went  by  her  like  a  prince,  haughtily  aloof, 
contemptuously  regardless. 

They  sat  down  in  a  comparatively  quiet  corner,  whence 
they  could  watch  the  ever-shifting  picture  without  being 
disturbed.  A  very  peculiar  mood  possessed  Piers.  He  was 
restless  and  uneasy  in  spite  of  his  high  spirits.  For  no 
definite  reason  he  wanted  to  keep  on  the  move.  In  defer 
ence  to  Crowther's  wish,  he  controlled  the  desire,  but  it 
was  an  obvious  effort. 

He  seemed  to  find  difficulty  also  in  attending  to  Crow 
ther's  quiet  remarks,  and  after  a  while  Crowther  ceased 
to  make  them.  He  finished  his  liqueur  and  sat  smoking 
with  his  eyes  on  the  dark,  sensitive  face  that  watched 
the  passing  crowd  so  indifferently,  yet  so  persistently. 

Piers  noticed  his  silence  at  last,  and  looked  at  him 
enquiringly.  "Shall  we  go?" 

Crowther  leaned  slowly  towards  him.  The  place  was 
public,  but  their  privacy  was  complete. 

"Piers,"  he  said,  "may  I  take  the  privilege  of  an  old 
friend?" 

"You  may  take  anything  you  like  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,"  said  Piers  impetuously. 

Crowther  smiled  a  little.  "Thank  you.  Then  I  will  go 
ahead.  Are  you  engaged  to  be  married?" 

"What?"  said  Piers.  He  looked  momentarily  startled; 
then  laughed  across  the  table  with  a  freedom  that  was 
wholly  unaffected.  "Am  I  engaged,  did  you  say?  No,  I'm 
not.  But  I'm  going  to  be  married  for  all  that. " 


198  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Ah!"  said  Crowther.     "I  thought  I  knew  the  signs." 

He  rose  with  the  words,  and  instantly  Piers  sprang  up 
also.  "Yes,  let's  go!  I  can't  breathe  here.  Come  down  to 
the  shore  for  a  breath  of  air,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it!'* 

He  linked  his  arm  again  in  Crowther's,  obviously  glad 
to  be  gone;  but  when  they  had  left  the  glittering  place 
behind  them,  he  still  talked  inconsequently  about  a  thou 
sand  things  till  in  his  calm  fashion  Crowther  turned  him 
back. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  anything  personal, "  he  said, 
"save  one  thing.  This  girl  whom  you  hope  to  marry — 
I  gather  you  are  pretty  sure  of  her?" 

Piers  threw  back  his  head  with  a  gesture  that  defied  the 
world.  "I  am  quite  sure  of  her,"  he  said;  and  a  moment 
later,  with  impulsive  confidence:  "She  has  just  taken  the 
trouble  to  write  at  length  and  tell  me  why  she  can't  have 
me." 

"Ah?"  Crowther's  tone  held  curiosity  as  well  as  kindly 
sympathy.  "A  sound  reason?" 

"No  reason  at  all, "  flung  back  Piers,  still  with  his  face  to 
the  stars.  "She  knows  that  as  well  as  I  do.  I  tell  you, 
Crowther,  I  know  the  way  to  that  woman's  heart,  and  I 
could  find  it  blindfold.  She  is  mine  already. " 

"And  doesn't  know  it?"  suggested  Crowther. 

"Yes,  she  does  in  her  heart  of  hearts, — or  soon  will. 
I  shall  send  her  a  post-card  to-morrow  and  sum  up  the 
situation. " 

"On  a  post-card?" 

Crowther  sounded  puzzled,  and  Piers  broke  into  a  laugh 
and  descended  to  earth. 

"Yes,  in  one  expressive  word — 'Rats!'  No  one  else  will 
understand  it,  but  she  will. " 

"A  little  abrupt!"  commented  Crowther. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  be  abrupt  now,"  said  Piers  with 
imperial  confidence.  "I'm  going  to  storm  the  position." 


A  Friend's  Counsel  199 

"And  you  are  sure  you  will  carry  it?" 

"Quite  sure."  Piers'  voice  held  not  the  faintest  shade 
of  doubt. 

"I  hope  you  will,  lad,"  said  Crowther  kindly.  "And — • 
that  being  the  case — may  I  say  what  I  set  out  to  say?  " 

"Oh,  go  ahead!"  said  Piers. 

"It's  only  this,"  said  Crowther,  in  his  slow,  quiet  way. 
"Only  a  word  of  advice,  sonny,  which  I  shouldn't  give  if  I 
didn't  know  that  your  life's  happiness  hangs  on  your  taking 
it.  You're  young,  but  there's  a  locked  door  in  your  past. 
Open  that  door  just  once  before  you  marry  the  woman  you 
love,  and  show  her  what  is  behind  it!  It'll  give  her  a  shock 
maybe.  But  it'll  be  better  for  you  both  in  the  end.  Don't 
let  there  be  any  locked  doors  between  you  and  your  wife! 
You're  too  young  for  that,  And  if  she's  the  right  sort,  it 
won't  make  a  pin's  difference  to  her  love.  Women  are  like 
that,  thank  God!" 

He  spoke  with  the  utmost  earnestness.  He  was  evidently 
keenly  anxious  to  gain  his  point.  But  his  words  went  into 
utter  silence.  Ere  they  were  fully  spoken  Piers'  hand  was 
withdrawn  from  his  arm.  His  careless,  swinging  stride 
became  a  heavy,  slackening  tramp,  and  at  last  he  halted 
altogether.  They  stood  side  by  side  in  silence  with  their 
faces  to  the  moon-silvered  water.  And  there  fell  a  long, 
long  pause,  as  though  the  whole  world  stopped  and  listened. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    PROMISE 

AFTER  all,  it  was  Crowther  who  broke  that  tragic 
silence;  perhaps  because  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
The  path  on  which  they  stood  was  deserted.  He  laid 
a  very  steady  hand  upon  Piers'  shoulder  with  a  compassion 
ate  glance  at  the  stony  young  face  which  a  few  minutes 
before  had  been  so  full  of  abounding  life. 

" It  comes  hard  to  you,  eh,  lad?"  he  said. 

Piers  stirred,  almost  made  as  if  he  would  toss  the  friendly 
hand  away;  but  in  the  end  he  suffered  it,  though  he  would 
not  meet  Crowther's  eyes. 

"  You  owe  it  to  her, "  urged  Crowther  gently.  "Tell  her, 
lad!  She's  bound  to  be  up  against  it  sooner  or  later  if 
you  don't." 

"Yes, "  Piers  said.     " I  know. " 

He  spoke  heavily ;  all  the  youth  seemed  to  have  gone  out 
of  him.  After  a  moment,  as  Crowther  waited  he  turned 
with  a  gesture  of  hopelessness  and  faced  him.  "I'm  like  a 
dog  on  a  chain,"  he  said.  "I  drag  this  way  and  that,  and 
eat  my  heart  out  for  freedom.  But  it's  all  no  use.  I've 
got  to  live  and  die  on  it."  He  clenched  his  hands  in 
sudden  passionate  rebellion.  "But  I'm  damned  if  I'm 
going  to  tell  anybody!  It's  hell  enough  without  that!" 

Crowther's  hand  closed  slowly  and  very  steadily  on  his 
shoulder.  "It's  just  hell  that  I  want  to  save  you  from, 
sonny, ' '  he  said.  ' '  It  may  seem  the  hardest  part  to  you  now, 

200 


The  Promise  201 

but  if  you  shirk  it  you'll  go  further  in  still.  I  know  very 
well  what  I'm  saying.  And  it's  just  because  you're  man 
enough  to  feel  this  thing  and  not  a  brute  beast  to  forget  it, 
that  it's  hurt  you  so  infernally  all  these  years.  But  it'll 
hurt  you  worse,  lad,  it'll  wring  your  very  soul,  if  you  keep  it 
a  secret  between  you  and  the  woman  you  love.  It's  a  big 
temptation,  but — if  I  know  you — you're  going  to  stand  up 
to  it.  She'll  think  the  better  of  you  for  it  in  the  end.  But 
it'll  be  a  shadow  over  both  your  lives  if  you  don't.  And 
there  are  some  things  that  even  a  woman  might  find  it  hard 
to  forgive." 

He  stopped.  Piers'  eyes  were  hard  and  fixed.  He 
scarcely  looked  as  if  he  heard.  From  below  them  there 
arose  the  murmur  of  the  moonlit  sea.  Close  at  hand  the 
trees  in  a  garden  stirred  mysteriously  as  though  they  moved 
in  their  sleep.  But  Piers  made  neither  sound  nor  move 
ment.  He  stood  like  an  image  of  stone. 

Again  the  silence  began  to  lengthen  intolerably,  to  stretch 
out  into  a  desert  of  emptiness,  to  become  fateful  with  a 
bitterness  too  poignant  to  be  uttered.  Crowther  said  no 
more.  He  had  had  his  say.  He  waited  with  unswerving 
patience  for  the  result. 

Piers  spoke  at  last,  and  there  was  a  queer  note  of  humour 
in  his  voice, — humour  that  was  tragic.  "So  I've  got  to  go 
back  again,  have  I?  Back  to  my  valley  of  dry  bones! 
There's  no  climbing  the  heights  for  me,  Crowther,  never  will 
be.  Somehow  or  other,  I  am  always  tumbled  back." 

"You're  wrong,"  Crowther  said,  with  quiet  decision. 
"  It's  the  only  way  out.  Take  it  like  a  man,  and  you'll  win 
through !  Shirk  it  and — well,  sonny,  no  shirker  ever  yet 
got  anything  worth  having  out  of  life.  You  know  that  as 
well  as  I  do." 

Piers  straightened  himself  with  a  brief  laugh.  "Yes,  I 
know  that  much.  But — I  sometimes  ask  myself  if  I'm  any 
better  than  a  shirker.  Life  is  such  a  beastly  farce  so  far  as 


202  The  Bars  of  Iron 

I  am  concerned.  I  never  do  anything.  There's  never 
anything  to  do." 

"Oh,  rats!"  said  Crowther,  and  smiled.  "There  are  not 
many  fellows  who  do  half  as  much.  If  to-day  is  a  fair 
sample  of  your  life,  I'm  damned  if  it's  an  easy  one. " 

"I'm  used  to  it,"  said  Piers  quickly.  "You  know,  I'm 
awfully  fond  of  my  grandfather — always  have  been.  We 
suit  each  other  marvellously  well — in  some  ways."  He 
paused  a  moment,  then,  with  an  effort,  "I  never  told  him 
either,  Crowther.  I  never  told  a  soul." 

"No,"  Crowther  said.  "I  don't  see  any  reason  that  you 
should.  But  the  woman  you  marry — she  is  different.  If 
you  take  her  into  your  inner  life  at  all,  she  is  bound  to  come 
upon  it  sooner  or  later.  You  must  see  it,  lad.  You  know 
it  in  your  heart. " 

"And  you  think  she  will  marry  me  when  she  knows  I'm  a 
— murderer?"  Piers  uttered  the  word  through  clenched 
teeth.  He  had  the  haggard  look  of  a  man  who  has  endured 
long  suffering. 

There  was  deep  compassion  in  Crowther's  eyes  as  he 
watched  him.  "I  don't  think — being  a  woman — she  will 
put  it  in  that  way, "  he  said,  "not,  that  is,  if  she  loves  you. " 

"How  else  could  she  put  it?"  demanded  Piers  harshly. 
"Is  there  any  other  way  of  putting  it?  I  killed  the  man 
intentionally.  I  told  you  so  at  the  time.  The  fellow  who 
taught  me  the  trick  warned  me  that  it  would  almost  cer 
tainly  be  fatal  to  a  heavy  man  taken  unawares.  Why,  he 
himself  is  now  doing  five  years'  penal  servitude  for  the  very 
same  thing.  Oh,  I'm  not  a  humbug,  Crowther.  I  bolted 
from  the  consequences.  You  made  me  bolt.  But  I've  often 
wished  to  heaven  since  that  I'd  stayed  and  faced  it  out. 
It  would  have  been  easier  in  the  end,  God  knows." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Crowther  said,  "you  will  never  con 
vince  me  of  that  as  long  as  you  live.  There  was  nothing 
to  gain  by  your  staying  and  all  to  lose.  Consequences 


The  Promise  203 

there  were  bound  to  be — and  always  are.  But  there  was 
no  good  purpose  to  be  served  by  wrecking  your  life.  You 
were  only  a  boy,  and  the  luck  was  against  you.  I  couldn't 
have  stood  by  and  seen  you  dragged  under." 

Piers  groaned.  "I  sometimes  wish  I  was  dead!"  he 
said. 

"My  dear  chap,  what's  the  good  of  that?"  Crowther 
slipped  his  hand  from  his  shoulder  to  his  arm,  and  drew  him 
quietly  forward.  "You've  suffered  infernally,  but  it's 
made  a  man  of  you.  Don't  forget  that!  It's  the  Sculptor 
and  the  Clay,  lad.  He  knows  how  best  to  fashion  a  good 
thing.  It  isn't  for  tie  clay  to  cry  out." 

"Is  that  your  point  of  view?"  Piers  spoke  with  reckless 
bitterness.  "  It  isn't  mine. " 

"You'll  come  to  it,"  said  Crowther  gently. 

They  walked  on  for  a  space  in  silence,  till  turning  they 
began  to  ascend  the  winding  path  that  led  up  to  the  hotel, 
—the  path  which  Piers  had  watched  Crowther  ascend 
that  morning. 

Side  by  side  they  mounted,  till  half-way  up  Crowther 
checked  their  progress.  "Piers,"  he  said,  "I'm  grateful  to 
you  for  enduring  my  interference  in  this  matter." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Piers,  "I  owe  you  that  much  anyhow." 

"You  owe  me  nothing,"  said  Crowther  emphatically. 
"What  I  did  for  you,  I  did  for  myself.  I've  rather  a 
weakness — it's  a  very  ordinary  one  too — for  trying  to 
manage  other  people's  concerns.  And  there's  something  so 
fine  about  you  that  I  can't  bear  to  stand  aside  and  see 
you  mess  up  your  own.  So,  sonny, — for  my  satisfaction, — 
will  you  promise  me  not  to  take  a  wrong  turning  over  this? " 

He  spoke  very  earnestly,  with  a  pleading  that  could  not 
give  offence.  Piers'  face  softened  almost  in  spite  of  him. 
"You're  an  awfully  good  chap,"  he  said. 

"Promise  me,  lad!"  pleaded  Crowther,  still  holding  his 
arm  in  a  friendly  grasp;  then  as  Piers  hesitated:  "You 


204  The  Bars  of  Iron 

know,  I'm  an  older  man  than  you  are.  I  can  see  further. 
You'll  be  making  your  own  hell  if  you  don't. " 

"But  why  should  I  promise?"  said  Piers  uneasily. 

"Because  I  know  you  will  keep  a  promise — even  against 
your  own  judgment."  Simply,  with  absolute  conviction, 
Crowther  made  reply.  "I  shan't  feel  happy  about  you — 
unless  you  promise." 

Piers  smiled  a  little,  but  the  lines  about  his  mouth  were 
grim.  "Oh,  all  right,  "  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "I  promise; 
— for  I  think  you  are  right,  Crowther.  I  think  too  that 
I  should  probably  have  to  tell  her — whether  I  wanted  to 
or  not.  She's  that  sort — the  sort  that  none  but  a  skunk 
could  deceive.  But — "  his  voice  altered  suddenly;  he 
turned  brooding  eyes  upon  the  sleeping  sea — "I  wonder  if 
she  will  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I — wonder." 

"Does  she  love  you?"  said  Crowther. 

Piers'  eyes  flashed  round  at  him.  "I  can  make  her  love 
me,"  he  said. 

"You  are  sure?" 

"I  am  sure." 

"Then,  my  son,  she'll  forgive  you.  And  if  you  want  to 
play  a  straight  game,  tell  her  soon!"  said  Crowther. 

And  Piers,  with  all  the  light  gone  out  of  his  eyes,  answered 
soberly,  "I  will." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DROSS 

IN  the  morning  they  hired  horses  and  went  towards  the 
mountains.  The  day  was  cloudless,  but  Sir  Beverley 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  accompany  them. 

"I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  exertion,"  he  said  to  Piers. 
"Besides,  I  detest  hired  animals,  always  did.  I  shall 
spend  an  intellectual  morning  listening  to  the  band." 

"  Hope  you  won't  be  bored,  sir,  "  said  Piers. 

"Your  going  or  coming  wouldn't  affect  that  one  way  or 
another,  "  responded  Sir  Beverley. 

Whereat  Piers  laughed  and  went  his  way. 

He  was  curiously  light-hearted  again  that  morning. 
The  soft  Southern  air  with  its  many  perfumes  exhilarated 
him  like  wine.  The  scent  of  the  orange-groves  rose  as  in 
cense  to  the  sun. 

The  animal  he  rode  danced  a  skittish  side-step  from  time 
to  time.  It  was  impossible  to  go  with  sober  mien. 

"It's  a  good  land,"  said  Crowther. 

"Flowing  with  milk  and  honey,"  laughed  Piers,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  olive-clothed  slopes.  "But  there's  no  country 
like  one's  own,  what?" 

"No  country  like  England,  you  mean,"  said  Crowther. 

"  Of  course  I  do,  but  I  was  too  polite  to  say  so. " 

"You  needn't  be  polite  to  me,"  said  Crowther  with  his 
slow  smile.  "And  England  happens  to  be  my  country.  I 

205 


206  The  Bars  of  Iron 

• 

am  as  British — "  he  glanced  at  Piers'  dark  face — "perhaps 
even  a  little  more  so — than  you  are." 

"I  plead  guilty  to  an  Italian  grandmother,"  said  Piers. 
"But  you — I  thought  you  were  Colonial." 

"I  am  British  born  and  bred,"  said  Crowther. 

"You?"  Piers  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "You  don't 
belong  to  Australia  then?" 

"Only  by  adoption.  I  was  the  son  of  an  English  parson. 
I  was  destined  for  the  Church  myself  for  the  first  twenty 
years  of  my  life. "  Crowther  was  still  smiling,  but  his  eyes 
had  left  Piers;  they  scanned  the  horizon  contemplatively. 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Piers.  "Lucky  escape  for  you, 
what?" 

"  I  didn't  think  so  at  the  time,  "  Crowther  spoke  thought 
fully,  sitting  motionless  in  his  saddle  and  gazing  straight 
before  him.  "You  see,  I  was  keen  on  the  religious  life.  I 
was  narrow  in  my  views — I  was  astonishingly  narrow;  but 
I  was  keen." 

"Ye  gods!"  said  Piers. 

He  looked  at  the  square,  strong  figure  incredulously. 
Somehow  he  could  not  associate  Crowther  with  any  but  a 
vigorous,  outdoor  existence. 

"You  would  never  have  stuck  to  it,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment.  "You'd  have  loathed  the  life." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Crowther,  in  his  deliberate  way, 
"though  I  admit  I  probably  shouldn't  have  expanded  much. 
It  wasn't  easy  to  give  it  up  at  the  time. " 

"What  made  you  do  it?"  asked  Piers. 

"Necessity.  When  my  father  died,  my  mother  was  left 
with  a  large  family  and  quite  destitute.  I  was  the  eldest, 
and  a  sheep-farming  uncle — a  brother  of  hers — offered  me  a 
wage  sufficient  to  keep  her  going  if  I  would  give  up  the 
Church  and  join  him.  I  was  already  studying.  I  could 
have  pushed  through  on  my  own;  but  I  couldn't  ha\e 
supported  her.  So  I  had  to  go.  That  was  the  beginning 


Dross  207 

of  my  Colonial  life.  It  was  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
and  I've  never  been  Home  since." 

He  turned  his  horse  quietly  round  to  continue  the  ascent. 
The  road  was  steep.  They  went  slowly  side  by  side. 

Crowther  went  on  in  a  grave,  detached  way,  as  though 
he  were  telling  the  story  of  another  man's  life.  "I  kicked 
hard  at  going,  but  I've  lived  to  be  thankful  that  I  went. 
I  had  to  rough  it,  and  it  did  me  good.  It  was  just  that  I 
wanted.  There's  never  much  fun  for  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land,  sonny, -and  it  took  me  some  time  to  shake  down.  In 
fact  just  for  a  while  I  thought  I  couldn't  stand  it.  The 
loneliness  out  there  on  those  acres  and  acres  of  grass-land 
was  so  awful;  for  I  was  city-bred.  I'd  never  been  in  the 
desert,  never  been  out  of  the  sound  of  church-bells."  He 
began  to  smile  again.  "I'd  even  got  a  sort  of  feeling  that 
God  wasn't  to  be  found  outside  civilization,"  he  said.  "I 
think  we  get  ultra-civilized  in  our  ideas  sometimes.  And 
the  emptiness  was  almost  overpowering.  It  was  like  being 
shut  down  behind  bars  of  iron  with  occasional  glimpses  of 
hell  to  enliven  the  monotony.  That  was  when  one  went 
to  the  townships,  and  saw  life.  They  didn't  tempt  me  at 
first.  I  was  too  narrow  even  for  that.  But  the  loneliness 
went  on  eating  and  eating  into  me  till  I  got  so  desperate 
in  the  end  I  was  ready  to  snatch  at  any  diversion."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  into  his  steady  eyes  there  came  a 
shadow  that  made  them  very  human.  "I  went  to  hell," 
he  said.  "  I  waded  up  to  the  neck  in  mire.  I  gave  myself 
up  to  it  body  and  soul.  I  wallowed.  And  all  the  while 
it  revolted  me,  though  it  was  so  sickeningly  easy  and 
attractive.  I  loathed  myself,  but  I  went  on  with  it.  It 
seemed  anyhow  one  degree  better  than  that  awful  home 
sickness.  And  then  one  day,  right  in  the  middle  of  it  all, 
I  had  a  sort  of  dream.  Or  perhaps  it  wasn't  any  more  a 
dream  than  Jacob  had  in  the  desert.  But  I  felt  as  if  I'd  been 
called,  and  I  just  had  to  get  up  and  go.  I  expect  most 


2o8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

people  know  the  sensation,  for  after  all  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  within  us ;  but  it  made  a  bigger  impression  on  me 
at  the  time  than  anything  in  my  experience.  So  I  went 
back  into  the  wilderness  and  waited.  Old  chap,  I  didn't 
wait  in  vain." 

He  suddenly  turned  his  head,  and  his  eyes  rested  upon 
Piers  with  the  serenity  of  a  man  at  peace  with  his  own  soul. 
"That's  about  all  my  story,"  he  said  with  simplicity.  "I 
got  the  strength  for  the  job,  and  so  carried  it  through. 
When  my  uncle  died,  I  was  left  in  command,  and  I've 
stuck  to  it  ever  since.  But  I  took  a  partner  a  few  years 
back,  and  now  I've  handed  over  the  whole  thing  to  him 
and  I'm  going  Home  at  last  to  my  old  mother." 

"Going  to  settle  in  England?"  asked  Piers. 

Crowther  shook  his  head.  "Not  now,  lad.  I  couldn't. 
There's  too  much  to  be  done.  No;  I'm  going  to  fulfil  my 
old  ambitions  if  I  can.  I'm  going  to  get  myself  ordained. 
After  that— 

He  paused,  for  Piers  had  turned  to  stare  at  him  in  open 
amazement.  "You!"  he  ejaculated. 

Crowther's  smile  came  over  his  face  like  a  spreading  light. 
"You  don't  think  much  of  parsons,  I  gather,  sonny,"  he 
said. 

Piers  broke  into  his  sudden  laugh.  "Not  as  a  tribe,  I 
admit.  I  can't  stand  any  man  who  makes  an  ass  of  himself, 
whatever  his  profession.  But  of  course  I  don't  mean  to 
assert  that  all  parsons  answer  to  that  description.  I've 
met  a  few  I  liked." 

Crowther's  smile  developed  into  a  laugh.  "Then  you 
won't  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure  of  your  friendship  if  I 
become  one?" 

"My  dear  chap,"  said  Piers  forcibly,  "if  you  became 
the  biggest  blackguard  in  creation,  you  would  remain 
my  friend. " 

It  was  regally  spoken,  but  the  speaker  was  plainly  so 


Dross  209 

unconscious  of  arrogance  that  Crowther's  hand  came  out  to 
him  and  lay  for  a  moment  on  his  arm.  "I  gathered  that, 
sonny, "  he  said  gently. 

Piers'  eyes  flashed  sympathy.  "And  what  are  you 
going  to  do  then?  You  say  you're  not  going  to  settle  in 
England?" 

"  I  am  not, "  said  Crowther,  and  again  he  was  looking  out 
ahead  of  him  with  eyes  that  spanned  the  far  distance. 
"No;  I'm  going  back  again  to  the  old  haunts.  There's 
a  thundering  lot  to  do  there.  It's  more  than  a  one-man 
job.  But,  please  God,  I'll  do  what  I  can.  I  know  I  can  do 
a  little.  It's  a  hell  of  a  place,  sonny.  You  saw  the  outside 
edge  of  it  yourself. " 

Piers  nodded  without  speaking.  It  had  been  in  a  sense 
his  baptism  of  fire. 

"It's  the  new  chums  I  want  to  get  hold  of,"  Crowther 
said.  "They  get  drawn  in  so  devilishly  easily.  They're 
like  children,  many  of  'em,  trying  to  walk  on  quicksands. 
They're  bound  to  go  in,  bound  to  go  under,  and  a  big  per 
centage  never  come  up  again.  It's  the  children  I  want  to 
help.  I  hate  to  think  of  fresh,  clean  lives  being  thrown 
on  to  the  dust-heap.  It's  so  futile, — such  a  crying  waste. " 

"  If  anyone  can  do  it,  you  can, "  said  Piers. 

"Ah!  I  wonder.  It  won't  be  easy,  but  I  know  their 
temptations  so  awfully  well.  I've  seen  scores  go  under. 
I've  been  under  myself.  And  that  makes  a  lot  of  difference." 

"Life  is  infernally  difficult  for  most  of  us,"  said  Piers. 

They  rode  in  silence  for  awhile,  and  then  he  changed  the 
subject. 

It  was  not  till  they  returned  that  Crowther  announced  his 
intention  of  leaving  on  the  following  day. 

"I've  no  time  for  slacking,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  come 
Home  to  slack.  And  there's  the  mother  waiting  for  me. " 

"Oh,  man,"  Piers  said  suddenly,  "how  I  wish  I  had  a 
mother!" 


2io  The  Bars  of  Iron 

And  then  half-ashamed,  he  turned  and  went  in  search 
of  his  grandfather. 

Again  that  evening  Crowther  accepted  Sir  Beverley's 
invitation  to  dine  at  their  table.  The  old  man  seemed 
to  regard  Piers'  friend  with  a  kind  of  suspicious  interest. 
He  asked  few  questions  but  he  watched  him  narrowly. 

"If  you  and  the  boy  want  to  go  to  the  Casino  again, 
don't  mind  me!"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  dinner. 

"We  don't,  sir, "  said  Piers  promptly.  "Can't  we  sit  out 
on  the  terrace  all  together  and  smoke?" 

"I  don't  go  beyond  the  lounge,"  said  Sir  Beverley,  with 
decision. 

"All  right,  we'll  sit  in  the  lounge,"  said  Piers. 

His  grandfather  frowned  at  him.  "Don't  be  a  fool, 
Piers!  Can't  you  see  you're  not  wanted?"  He  thrust 
out  an  abrupt  hand  to  Crowther.  "Good-night  to  you! 
I  shall  probably  retire  before  you  come  in. " 

"He  is  leaving  first  thing  in  the  morning,"  said 
Piers. 

Sir  Beverley's  frown  was  transferred  to  Crowther.  He 
looked  at  him  piercingly.  "Leaving,  are  you?  Going 
to  England,  eh?  I  suppose  we  shall  meet  again  then?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Crowther. 

Sir  Beverley  grunted.  "Do  you?  Well,  we  shan't  be 
moving  yet.  But — if  you  care  to  look  us  up  at  Rodding 
Abbey  when  we  do  get  back — you  can;  eh,  Piers? " 

"I  tell  him,  he  must,  sir,"  said  Piers. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Crowther.  "Good-bye  sir! 
And  thank  you!" 

He  and  Piers  went  out  together,  and  walked  to  and  fro 
in  the  garden  above  the  sea.  The  orchestra  played  fitfully 
in  the  hotel  behind  them,  and  now  and  then  there  came  the 
sounds  of  careless  voices  and  wandering  feet.  They  them 
selves  talked  but  little.  Piers  was  in  a  dreamy  mood,  and 
his  companion  was  plainly  deep  in  thought. 


Dross  211 

He  spoke  at  length  out  of  a  long  silence.  "Did  your 
grandfather  say  Rodding  Abbey  just  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Piers,  waking  up. 

"It's  near  a  place  called  Wardenhurst ? "  pursued 
Crowther. 

"Yes,"  said  Piers  again.     "Ever  been  there?" 

"No,"  Crowther  spoke  slowly,  as  though  considering 
his  words.  "Someone  I  know  lives  there,  that's  all." 

"Someone  you  know?"  Piers  stood  still.  He  looked  at 
Crowther  sharply  through  the  dimness. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  have  ever  met  her,  lad,"  said 
Crowther  quietly.  "From  what  I  know  of  society  in  the 
old  country  you  wouldn't  move  in  the  same  circle.  But  as 
I  have  promised  myself  to  visit  her,  it  seems  better  to 
mention  the  fact. " 

"Why  shouldn't  you  mention  it?  What  is  her  name?" 
Piers  spoke  quickly,  in  the  imperious  fashion  habitual  to 
him  when  not  quite  at  his  ease. 

Crowther  hesitated.  He  seemed  to  be  debating  some 
point  with  himself. 

At  length,   "Her  name,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  Denys. " 

Piers  made  a  sudden  movement  that  passed  unexplained. 
There  fell  a  few  moments  of  silence.  Then,  in  a  voice 
even  more  measuied  than  Crowther's,  he  spoke. 

"As  it  happens,  I  have  met  her.  Tell  me  what  you  know 
about  her, — if  you  don't  mind. " 

Again  Crowther  hesitated. 

"Go  on,"  said  Piers. 

They  were  facing  one  another  in  the  darkness.  The  end 
of  Piers'  cigar  had  ceased  to  glow.  He  did  not  seem  to  be 
breathing.  But  in  the  tense  moments  that  followed  his 
words  there  came  to  Crowther  the  hard,  quick  beating  of 
his  heart  like  the  thud  of  a  racing  engine  far  away. 

Instinctively  he  put  out  a  hand.  "Piers,  old  chap, — " 
he  said. 


212  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Go  on!"  Piers  said  again. 

He  gripped  both  hand  and  wrist  with  nervous  fingers, 
holding  them  almost  as  though  he  would  force  from  him 
the  information  he  desired. 

Crowther  waited  no  longer,  for  he  knew  in  that  moment 
that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  soul  in  torment.  "You'll 
have  to  know  it,"  he  said,  "though  why  these  things 
happen,  God  alone  knows.  Sonny,  she  is  the  widow  of  the 
man  whose  death  you  caused." 

The  words  were  spoken,  and  after  them  came  silence — • 
such  a  silence  as  could  be  felt.  Once  the  hands  that  gripped 
Crowther's  seemed  about  to  slacken,  and  then  in  a  moment 
they  tightened  again  as  the  hands  of  a  drowning  man  cling 
ing  to  a  spar. 

Crowther  attempted  nothing  in  the  way  of  sympathy  or 
consolation.  He  merely  stood  ready.  But  it  was  evident 
that  he  did  not  need  to  be  told  of  the  tragedy  that  had 
suddenly  fallen  upon  Piers'  life.  His  attitude  said  as  much. 

Very,  very  slowly  at  last,  as  if  not  wholly  sure  of  his 
balance,  Piers  let  him  go.  He  took  out  his  cigar  with  a 
mechanical  movement  and  looked  at  it;  then  abruptly 
returned  it  to  his  lips  and  drew  it  fiercely  back  to  life. 

Then,  through  a  cloud  of  smoke,  he  spoke.  "  Crowther,  I 
made  you  a  promise  yesterday." 

"You  did,"  said  Crowthei  gravely. 

Piers  threw  him  a  quick  look.  "Oh,  you  needn't  be 
afraid,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  cry  off.  It's  not  my 
way.  But — I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise  in  return. " 

"What  is  it,  sonny?"  There  was  just  a  hint  of  anxiety 
in  Crowther's  tone. 

Piers  made  a  reckless,  half -defiant  movement  of  the  head. 
"It  is  that  you  will  never — whatever  the  circumstances — 
speak  of  this  thing  again  to  anyone — not  even  to  me." 

"You  think  it  necessary  to  ask  that  of  me?"  said 
Crowther. 


Dross  213 

"No,  I  don't!"  Impulsively  Piers  made  answer.  "I 
believe  I'm  a  cur  to  ask  it.  But  this  thing  has  dogged  me  so 
persistently  that  I  feel  like  an  animal  being  run  to  earth. 
For  my  peace  of  mind,  Crowther; — because  I'm  a  coward 
if  you  like — give  me  your  word  on  it!" 

He  laid  a  hand  not  wholly  steady  upon  Crowther's 
shoulder,  and  impelled  him  forward.  His  voice  was  low 
and  agitated. 

"Forgive  me,  old  chap!"  he  urged.  "  And  understand, 
if  you  can.  It's  all  you  can  do  to  help. " 

"My  dear  lad,  of  course  I  do!"  Instant  and  reassuring 
came  Crowther's  reply.  "If  you  want  my  promise,  you 
have  it.  The  business  is  yours,  not  mine.  I  shall  never 
interfere. " 

"Thank  you — thanks  awfully!"  Piers  said. 

He  drew  a  great  breath.  His  hand  went  through 
Crowther's  arm. 

"That  gives  me  time  to  think,  "he  said.  "What  an 
infernal  tangle  this  beastly  world  is!  I  suppose  you  think 
there's  a  reason  for  everything?" 

"You've  heard  of  gold  being  tried  in  the  fire,"  said 
Crowther. 

Piers  broke  into  his  sudden  laugh.  "I'm  not  gold,  my 
dear  chap,  but  the  tinniest  dross  that  ever  was  made. 
Shall  we  go  and  have  a  drink,  what?  This  sort  of  thing 
always  makes  me  thirsty. " 

It  was  characteristically  abrupt.  It  ended  the  matter  in 
a  trice.  They  went  together  to  the  hotel  buffet,  and  there 
Piers  quenched  his  thirst.  It  was  while  there  that  Crowther 
became  aware  that  his  mood  had  wholly  changed.  He 
laughed  and  joked  with  the  bright-eyed  French  girl  who 
waited  upon  them,  and  seemed  loth  to  depart.  Silently,  but 
with  a  growing  anxiety,  Crowther  watched  him.  There 
was  certainly  nothing  forced  about  his  gaiety.  It  was 
wildly,  recklessly  spontaneous;  but  there  was  about  it  a 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


fevered  quality  that  set  Crowther  almost  instinctively  on 
his  guard.  He  did  not  know,  and  he  had  no  means  of 
gauging,  exactly  how  deeply  the  iron  had  pierced.  But 
that  some  sort  of  wound  had  been  inflicted  he  could  not 
doubt.  It  might  be  merely  a  superficial  one,  but  he  feared 
that  it  was  something  more  than  that.  There  was  a  queer, 
intangible  species  of  mockery  in  Piers'  attitude,  as  though  he 
set  the  whole  world  at  defiance. 

And  yet  he  did  not  look  like  a  man  who  had  been  stunned 
by  an  unexpected,  sledge-hammer  blow  of  Fate.  He  was 
keenly,  fiercely  alive  to  his  surroundings.  He  seemed  to  be 
gibing  rather  at  a  blow  that  had  glanced  aside.  Uneasily 
Crowther  wondered. 

It  was  he  who  finally  suggested  a  move.  It  was  growing 
late. 

"So  it  is!"  said  Piers.  "You  ought  to  be  turning  in  if 
you  really  mean  to  make  an  early  start.  " 

He  stood  still  in  the  hall  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Good 
night,  old  chap!  I'm  not  going  up  at  present." 

"You'd  better,"  said  Crowther. 

"No,  I  can't.  I  couldn't  possibly  turn  in  yet."  He 
thrust  his  hand  upon  Crowther.  "Good-night!  I  shall  see 
you  in  the  morning." 

Crowther  took  the  hand.  The  hall  was  deserted.  They 
stood  together  under  a  swinging  lamp,  and  by  its  flaring  light 
Crowther  sought  to  read  his  companion's  face. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Piers  refused  to  meet  his  look,  then 
with  sudden  stubbornness  he  raised  his  eyes  and  stared 
back.  They  shone  as  black  and  hard  as  ebony. 

"Good-night!"  he  said  again. 

Crowther's  level  brows  were  slightly  drawn.  His  hand, 
square  and  strong,  closed  upon  Piers'  and  held  it. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  did  not  speak;  then:  "I  don't 
know  that  I  feel  like  turning  in  yet  either,  sonny,  "  he  said 
deliberately. 


Dross  215 

Piers  made  a  swift  movement  of  impatience.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  grow  brighter,  more  grimly  hard. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me  in  any  case," 
he  said.  "I'm  going  up  to  see  if  my  grandfather  has  all  he 
wants." 

It  was  defiantly  spoken.  He  turned  with  the  words, 
almost  wresting  his  hand  free,  and  strode  away  towards 
the  lift. 

Reaching  it,  some  sense  of  compunction  seemed  to  touch 
him  for  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  with  an  abrupt 
gesture  of  farewell. 

Crowther  made  no  answering  sign.  He  stood  gravely 
watching.  But,  as  the  lift  shot  upwards,  he  turned  aside 
and  began  squarely  to  ascend  the  stairs. 

When  Piers  came  out  of  his  room  ten  minutes  later  with 
a  coat  over  his  arm  he  came  face  to  face  with  him  in 
the  corridor.  There  was  a  certain  grimness  apparent 
about  Crowther  also  by  that  time.  He  offered  no  ex 
planation  of  his  presence,  although  quite  obviously  he  was 
waiting. 

Piers  stood  still.  There  was  a  dangerous  glitter  in  his 
eyes  that  came  and  went.  "Look  here,  Crowther!"  he 
said.  "It's  no  manner  of  use  your  attempting  this  game 
with  me.  I'm  going  out,  and — whether  you  like  it  or  not, 
I  don't  care  a  damn — I'm  going  alone." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Crowther. 

"To  the  Casino,"  Piers  flung  the  words  with  a  gleam  of 
clenched  teeth. 

Crowther  looked  at  him  straight  and  hard.  "What 
for?"  he  asked. 

"What  do  people  generally  go  for?"  Piers  prepared  to 
move  on  as  he  uttered  the  question. 

But  Crowther  deliberately  blocked  his  way.  "Nor 
Piers,"  he  said  quietly.  "You're  not  going  to-night." 

The  blood  rose  in  a  great  wave  to  Piers'  forehead.     His 


216  The  Bars  of  Iron 

eyes  shone  suddenly  red.  "Do  you  think  you're  going  to 
stop  me?"  he  said. 

"For  to-night,  sonny — yes."  Quite  decidedly  Crowther 
made  reply.  "To-morrow  you  will  be  your  own  master. 
But  to-night — well,  you've  had  a  bit  of  a  knock  out; 
you're  off  your  balance.  Don't  go  to-night!" 

He  spoke  with  earnest  appeal,  but  he  still  blocked  the 
passage  squarely,  stoutly,  immovably. 

The  hot  flush  died  out  of  Piers'  face ;  he  went  slowly  white. 
But  the  blaze  of  wrath  in  his  eyes  leaped  higher.  For  the 
moment  he  looked  scarcely  sane. 

"If  you  don't  clear  out  of  my  path,  I  shall  throw  you!" 
he  said,  speaking  very  quietly,  but  with  a  terrible  distinct 
ness  that  made  misunderstanding  impossible. 

Crowther,  level-browed  and  determined,  remained  where 
he  was.  "I  don't  think  you  will, "  he  said. 

"Don't  you?"  A  faint  smile  of  derision  twisted  Piers' 
lips.  He  gathered  up  the  coat  he  carried,  and  threw  it 
across  his  shoulder. 

Crowther  watched  him  with  eyes  that  never  varied. 
"Piers!"  he  said. 

"Well?"  Piers  looked  at  him,  still  with  that  slight,  grim 
smile. 

Crowther  stood  like  a  rock.  "  I  will  let  you  pass,  sonny, 
if  you  can  tell  me — on  your  word  of  honour  as  a  gentleman 
— that  the  tables  are  all  you  have  in  your  mind." 

Piers  tossed  back  his  head  with  the  action  of  an  angry 
beast.  "  What  the  devil  has  that  to  do  with  you  ? " 

"Everything,"  said  Crowther. 

He  moved  at  last,  quietly,  massively,  and  took  Piers  by 
the  shoulders.  "  My  son, "  he  said,  "  I  know  where  you  are 
going.  I've  been  there  myself.  But  in  God's  name,  lad, 
don't — don't  go!  There  are  some  stains  that  never  come 
out  though  one  would  give  all  one  had- to  be  rid  of  them. " 

"Let  me  go!"  said  Piers. 


Dross  217 

He  was  breathing  quickly ;  his  eyes  gazed  fiercely  into  the 
elder  man's  face.  He  made  no  violent  movement,  but  his 
whole  body  was  tensely  strung  to  resist. 

Crowther's  hands  tightened  upon  him.  "Not  to-night!" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  now!"  Something  of  electricity  ran  through 
Piers;  there  came  as  it  were  the  ripple  of  muscles  contract 
ing  for  a  spring.  Yet  still  he  stood  motionless,  menacing 
but  inactive. 

"I  will  not!"  Sudden  and  hard  Crowther's  answer 
came;  his  hold  became  a  grip.  By  sheer  unexpectedness 
of  action,  he  forced  Piers  back  against  the  door  behind  him. 

It  gave  inwards,  and  they  stumbled  into  the  darkness  of 
the  bedroom. 

"You  fool ! "  said  Piers.     "You  fool ! " 

Yet  he  gave  ground,  scarcely  resisting,  and  coming  up 
against  the  bed  sat  down  upon  it  suddenly  as  if  spent. 

There  fell  a  brief  silence,  a  tense,  hard-breathing  pause. 
Then  Piers  reached  up  and  freed  himself. 

"Oh,  go  away,  Crowther!"  he  said.  "You're  a  kind  old 
ass,  but  I  don't  want  you.  And  you  needn't  spend  the 
night  in  the  corridor  either.  See?  Just  go  to  bed  like  a 
Christian  and  let  me  do  the  same!" 

The  struggle  was  over;  so  suddenly,  so  amazingly,  that 
Crowther  stood  dumbfounded.  He  had  girded  himself  to 
wrestle  with  a  giant,  but  there  was  nothing  formidable 
about  the  boy  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  laughed  at 
him  with  easy  ridicule. 

"Why  don't  you  switch  on  the  light,"  he  jeered,  "and 
have  a  good  look  round  for  the  devil?  He  was  here  a 
minute  ago.  What?  Don't  you  believe  in  devils ?  That's 
heresy.  All  good  parsons —  He  got  up  suddenly  and  went 
to  the  switch.  In  a  second  the  room  was  flooded  with  light. 
He  returned  to  Crowther  with  the  full  flare  on  his  face,  and 
the  only  expression  it  wore  was  one  of  careless  friendliness. 


218  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-night,  dear  old  fellow!  Say 
your  prayers  and  go  to  bed!  And  you  needn't  have  any 
more  nightmares  on  my  account.  I'm  going  to  turn  in 
myself  directly." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  sincerity,  or  the  completeness  of 
his  surrender.  Crowther  could  but  take  the  extended  hand, 
and,  in  silent  astonishment,  treat  the  incident  as  closed. 

He  even  wondered  as  he  went  away  if  he  had  not  possibly 
exaggerated  the  whole  matter,  though  at  the  heart  of  him 
he  knew  that  this  was  only  what  Piers  himself  desired  him 
to  believe.  He  could  not  but  feel  convinced,  however, 
that  the  danger  was  past  for  the  time  at  least.  In  his 
own  inimitable  fashion  Piers  had  succeeded  in  reassuring 
him.  He  was  fully  satisfied  that  the  boy  would  keep  his 
word,  for  his  faith  in  him  was  absolute.  But  he  felt  the 
victory  that  was  his  to  be  a  baffling  one.  He  had  conquered 
merely  because  Piers  of  his  own  volition  had  ceased  to 
resist.  He  did  not  understand  that  sudden  submission. 
Like  Sir  Beverley,  he  was  puzzled  by  it.  There  was  about 
it  a  mysterious  quality  that  eluded  his  understanding.  He 
would  have  given  a  good  deal  for  a  glimpse  of  the  motive 
that  lay  behind. 

But  he  had  to  go  without  it.  Piers  was  in  no  expansive 
mood.  Perhaps  he  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  explain 
himself  even  had  he  so  desired. 

Whatever  the  motive  that  had  urged  him,  it  urged  him  no 
longer,  or  it  had  been  diverted  into  a  side-channel.  For 
almost  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  threw  himself  down 
and  scribbled  a  careless  line  to  Ina  Rose,  advising  her  to 
accompany  her  father  to  Mentone,  and  adding  that  he 
believed  she  would  not  be  bored  there. 

When  he  had  despatched  Victor  with  the  letter,  he  flung 
his  window  wide  and  leaned  out  of  it  with  his  eyes  wide 
opened  on  the  darkness,  and  on  his  lips  that  smile  that  was 
not  good  to  see. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SUBSTANCE 

IT  was  a  blustering  spring  day,  and  Avery,  caught  in  a 
sudden  storm  of  driving  sleet,  stood  up  against  the 
railings  of  the  doctor's  house,  sheltering  as  best  she  might. 
She  was  holding  her  umbrella  well  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 
and  trying  to  protect  an  armful  of  purchases  as  well. 

She  was  alone,  Gracie,  the  black  sheep,  having  been  sent 
to  school  at  the  close  of  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  Jeanie 
being  confined  to  the  house  with  a  severe  cold.  Olive,  hav 
ing  become  more  and  more  her  father's  constant  companion, 
disdained  shopping  expeditions.  The  two  elder  boys  and 
Pat  were  all  at  a  neighbouring  school  as  weekly  boarders,  and 
though  she  missed  them  Avery  had  it  not  in  her  heart  to 
regret  the  arrangement.  The  Vicarage  might  at  times  seem 
dreary,  but  it  had  become  undeniably  an  abode  of  peace. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  was  gradually  recovering  her  strength,  and 
Avery 's  care  now  centred  more  upon  Jeanie  than  her  mother. 
Though  the  child  had  recovered  from  her  accident,  she  had 
not  been  really  well  all  the  winter,  and  the  cold  spring 
seemed  to  tax  her  strength  to  the  uttermost.  Tudor  still 
dropped  in  at  intervals,  but  he  said  little,  and  his  manner 
did  not  encourage  Avery  to  question  him.  Privately  she 
was  growing  anxious  about  Jeanie,  and  she  wished  that  he 
would  be  more  communicative.  He  had  absolutely  for 
bidden  book-work,  a  fiat  to  which  Mr.  Lorimer  had  yielded 
under  protest. 

219 


220  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"The  child  will  grow  up  a  positive  dunce,"  he  had 
declared. 

To  which  Tudor  had  brusquely  rejoined,  "What  of  it?" 

But  his  word  was  law  so  far  as  Jeanie  was  concerned,  and 
Mr.  Lorimer  had  relinquished  the  point  with  the  sigh  of  one 
submitting  to  the  inevitable.  He  did  not  like  Lennox 
Tudor,  but  for  some  reason  he  always  avoided  an  open 
disagreement  with  him. 

It  was  of  Jeanie  that  Avery  was  thinking  as  she  stood 
there  huddled  against  the  railings  while  the  sleet  beat  a 
fierce  tattoo  on  her  levelled  umbrella  and  streamed  from  it 
in  rivers  on  to  the  ground.  She  even  debated  with  herself 
if  it  seemed  advisable  to  turn  and  enter  the  doctor's  dwell 
ing,  and  try  to  get  him  to  speak  frankly  of  the  matter  as  he 
had  spoken  once  before. 

She  dismissed  the  idea,  however,  reflecting  that  he  would 
most  probably  be  out,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  collect 
ing  her  forces  to  make  a  rush  for  another  sheltered  spot  fur 
ther  on  when  the  front  door  opened  unexpectedly  behind 
her,  and  Tudor  himself  came  forth  bareheaded  into  the 
rain. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  Mrs.  Denys?"  he  said. 
"Why  don't  you  come  inside?" 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her,  and  took  her  parcels  without 
waiting  for  a  reply.  And  Avery,  still  with  her  umbrella 
poised  against  the  blast,  smiled  her  thanks  and  passed  in. 

The  hair  grew  far  back  on  Tudor 's  forehead,  it  was  in 
fact  becoming  scanty  on  the  top  of  his  head ;  and  the  rain 
drops  glistened  upon  it  as  he  entered  behind  Avery.  He 
wiped  them  away,  and  then  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped 
them  also. 

"Come  into  the  dining-room!"  he  said.  "You  are  just 
in  time  to  join  me  at  tea." 

"You're  very  kind, "  Avery  said.  "  But  I  ought  to  hurry 
back  the  moment  the  rain  lessens." 


Substance  221 

"It  won't  lessen  yet,"  said  Tudor.  "Take  off  your 
mackintosh,  won't  you?  I  expect  your  feet  are  wet. 
There's  a  fire  to  dry  them  by. " 

Certainly  the  storm  showed  no  signs  of  abating.  The 
sky  was  growing  darker  every  instant.  Avery  slipped  the 
streaming  mackintosh  from  her  shoulders  and  entered  the 
room  into  which  he  had  invited  her. 

The  blaze  on  the  hearth  was  cheering  after  the  icy  gale 
without.  She  went  to  it,  stretching  her  numbed  hands 
to  the  warmth. 

Tudor  pushed  forward  a  chair.  "I  believe  you  are 
chilled  to  the  bone,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  at  that.  "Oh  no,  indeed  I  am  not!  But 
it  is  a  cold  wind,  isn't  it?  Have  you  finished  your  work 
for  to-day?" 

Tudor  foraged  in  a  cupboard  for  an  extra  cup  and  saucer. 
"No.  I've  got  to  go  out  again  later.  I've  just  come 
back  from  Miss  Whalley's.  She's  got  a  touch  of  jaundice. " 

"Oh,  poor  thing!"  said  Avery. 

"Yes;  poor  thing!"  echoed  Tudor  grimly.  "She  is  very 
sorry  for  herself,  I  can  assure  you;  but  as  full  of  gossip 
as  ever."  He  paused. 

Avery,  with  her  face  to  the  fire,  laughed  a  little.  "Any 
thing  new?" 

"Miss  Whalley, "  said  Tudor  deliberately,  "always  gets 
hold  of  something  new.  Never  noticed  that?" 

"Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  pour  out?"  suggested  Avery. 

"No.  You  keep  your  feet  on  the  fender.  Do  you  want 
to  hear  the  latest  tittle-tattle — or  not?" 

There  was  a  wary  gleam  behind  Tudor's  glasses;  but 
Avery  did  not  turn  her  eyes  from  the  fire.  A  curious 
little  feeling  of  uneasiness  possessed  her,  a  sensation  that 
scarcely  amounted  to  dread  yet  which  quickened  the  beat 
ing  of  her  heart  in  a  fashion  that  she  found  vaguely 
disconcerting. 


222  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Don't  tell  me  anything  ugly!"  she  said  gently,  still  not 
looking  at  him. 

Tudor  uttered  a  short  laugh.  "There's  nothing  espe 
cially  venomous  about  it  that  I  can  see."  He  lifted  the 
teapot  and  began  to  pour.  "Have  you  heard  from  young 
Evesham  lately?" 

The  question  was  casually  uttered;  but  A  very 's  hands 
made  a  slight  involuntary  movement  over  the  fire  towards 
which  she  leaned. 

"No,"  she  said. 

At  the  same  moment  the  cup  that  Tudor  was  rilling  over 
flowed,  and  he  whispered  something  under  his  breath  and 
set  down  the  tea-pot. 

Avery  turned  towards  him  instinctively,  to  see  him 
dabbing  the  table  with  his  handkerchief. 

"It's  almost  too  dark  to  see  what  one  is  doing, "  he  said. 

"It  is,"  she  assented  gravely,  and  turned  back  quietly 
to  the  fire,  not  offering  to  assist.  A  soft  veil  of  reserve 
seemed  to  have  descended  upon  her.  She  did  not  speak 
again  until  he  had  remedied  the  disaster  and  brought  her 
some  tea.  Then,  with  absolute  composure,  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  something  about  Piers 
Evesham,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  looked  back  into  hers  with  a  certain  steeliness, 
as  though  they  sought  to  penetrate  her  reserve. 

"I  was,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "though  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  will  interest  you  very  greatly.  I  had  it  from  Miss 
Whalley,  but  I  was  not  told  the  source  of  her  information. 
Rumour  says  that  the  young  man  is  engaged  to  Miss  Ina 
Rose  of  Wardenhurst. " 

"Oh,  really?"  said  Avery.  She  took  the  cup  he  offered 
her  with  a  hand  that  was  perfectly  steady,  though  she  was 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  her  face  was  pale.  "They  are 
abroad,  I  think?"  . 


Substance  223 

"Yes,  in  the  Riviera."  Tudor's  eyes  fell  away  from 
hers  abruptly.  "At  least  they  have  been.  Someone  said, 
they  were  coming  home. "  He  stooped  to  put  wood  on  the 
fire,  and  there  fell  a  silence. 

Avery  spoke  after  a  moment.  "No  doubt  he  will  be 
happier  married." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Tudor.  "I  should  say  myself  that  he 
has  the  sort  of  temperament  that  is  never  satisfied.  He's 
too  restless  for  that.  I  don't  think  Miss  Ina  Rose  is  greatly 
to  be  envied." 

"Unless  she  loves  him,"  said  Avery.  She  spoke  almost 
under  her  breath,  her  eyes  upon  the  fire.  Tudor,  standing 
beside  her  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  was  still 
conscious  of  that  filmy  veil  of  reserve  floating  between 
them.  It  chafed  him,  but  it  was  too  intangible  a  thing 
to  tear  aside. 

He  waited  therefore  in  silence,  watching  her  face,  the 
tender  lines  of  her  mouth,  the  sweet  curves  that  in  childhood 
must  have  made  a  perfect  picture  of  happiness. 

She  raised  her  eyes  at  length.     " Dr.  Tudor!" 

And  then  she  realized  his  scrutiny,  and  a  soft  flush  rose 
and  overspread  her  pale  face.  She  lifted  her  straight  brows 
questioningly. 

And  all  in  a  moment  Tudor  found  himself  speaking, — 
not  of  his  own  volition,  not  the  words  he  had  meant  to 
speak,  but  nervously,  stammeringly,  giving  utterance  to 
the  thoughts  that  suddenly  welled  over  from  his  soul. 
"  I've  been  wanting  to  speak  for  ages.  I  couldn't  get  it  out. 
But  it's  no  good  keeping  it  in,  is  it?  I  don't  get  any  nearer 
that  way.  I  don't  want  to  vex  you,  make  you  feel  uncom 
fortable.  No  one  knows  better  than  I  that  I  haven't 
much  to  offer.  But  I  can  give  you  a  home  and — and  all 
my  love,  if  you  will  have  it.  It  may  seem  a  small  thing  to 
you,  but  it's  bigger  than  the  calf-love  of  an  infant  like  young 
Evesham.  I  know  he  dared  to  let  his  fancy  stray  your  way, 


224  The  Bars  of  Iron 

and  you  see  now  what  it  was  worth.  But  mine — mine  isn't 
fancy." 

And  there  he  stopped ;  for  Avery  had  risen  and  was  facing 
him  in  the  firelight  with  eyes  of  troubled  entreaty. 

"Oh,  please, "  she  said,  "please  don't  go  on!" 

He  stood  upright  with  a  jerk.  The  distress  on  her  face 
restored  his  normal  self-command  more  quickly  than  any 
words.  Half-mechanically  he  reached  out  and  took  her 
tea-cup,  setting  it  down  on  the  mantelpiece  before  her. 

1 '  Don't  be  upset ! "  he  said.  ' '  I  didn't  mean  to  upset  you. 
I  shan't  go  on,  if  it  is  against  your  wish. " 

"It  is, "  said  Avery.  She  spoke  tremulously,  locking  her 
hands  fast  together.  "It  must  be  my  own  fault,  "  she  said, 
"I'm  dreadfully  sorry.  I  hoped  you  weren't — really  in 
earnest." 

He  smiled  at  that  with  a  touch  of  cynicism.  "Did  you 
think  I  was  amusing  myself — or  you?  Sit  down  again, 
won't  you?  There  is  no  occasion  whatever  for  you  to  be 
distressed.  I  assure  you  that  you  are  in  no  way  to  blame." 

"I  am  dreadfully  sorry,"  Avery  repeated. 

"That's  nice  of  you.  I  had  scarcely  dared  to  flatter 
myself  that  you  would  be — glad.  So  you  see,  you  have 
really  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  I  am  no  worse  off 
than  I  was  before." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  quick,  confiding 
gesture.  "You  are  very  kind  to  put  it  in  that  way.  I 
value  your  friendship  so  much,  so  very  much.  Yes,  and  I 
value  your  love  too.  It's  not  a  small  thing  to  me.  Only, 
you  know — you  know —  "  she  faltered  a  little — "I've  been 
married  before,  and — though  I  loved  my  husband — my 
married  life  was  a  tragedy.  Oh  yes,  he  loved  me  too.  It 
wasn't  that  sort  of  misery.  It  was — it  was  drink. " 

"Poor  girl!"  said  Tudor. 

He  spoke  with  unwonted  gentleness,  and  he  held  her  hand 
with  the  utmost  kindness.  There  was  nothing  of  the  rejected 


Substance  225 

lover  in  his  attitude.  He  was  man  enough  to  give  her  his 
first  sympathy. 

Avery's  lips  were  quivering.  She  went  on  with  a  visible 
effort.  "He  died  a  violent  death.  He  was  killed  in  a 
quarrel  with  another  man.  I  was  told  it  was  an  accident, 
but  it  didn't  seem  like  that  to  me.  And — it  had  an  effect 
on  me.  It  made  me  hard — made  me  bitter. " 

"You,  Avery!"  Tudor 's  voice  was  gravely  incredulous. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  fire,  and  he  saw  on  her  lashes 
the  gleam  of  tears.  "I've  never  told  anyone  that;  but  it's 
the  truth.  It  seemed  to  me  that  life  was  cruel,  mainly 
because  of  men's  vices.  And  women  were  created  only  to 
go  under.  It  was  a  horrid  sort  of  feeling  to  have,  but  it 
has  never  wholly  left  me.  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  face 
marriage  a  second  time. " 

"Oh  yes,  you  could,"  said  Tudor,  quietly,  "if  you  loved 
the  man." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  too  old  to  fall  in  love.  I 
have  somehow  missed  the  romance  of  life.  I  know  what  it 
is,  but  it  will  never  come  to  me  now." 

"And  you  won't  marry  without?"  he  said. 

"No." 

There  fell  a  pause;  then,  still  with  the  utmost  quietness, 
he  relinquished  her  hand.  "I  think  you  are  right,"  he 
said.  "Marriage  without  love  on  both  sides  is  a  ship  with 
out  ballast.  Yet,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  you  are  mis 
taken  in  your  idea  that  you  have  lost  the  capacity  for  that 
form  of  love.  You  may  know  what  it  is.  Most  women  do. 
But  I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  really  felt  it." 

"Not  to  the  full,"  Avery  answered,  her  voice  very  low. 
"Then  I  was  too  young.  Mine  was  just  a  child's  rapture 
and  it  was  simply  extinguished  when  I  came  to  know  the 
kind  of  burden  I  had  to  bear.  It  all  faded  so  quickly,  and 
the  reality  was  so  terribly  grim.  Now — now  I  look  on  the 
world  with  experienced  eyes.  I  am  too  old. " 


226  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"You  think  experience  destroys  romance?"    said  Tudor. 

She  looked  at  him.     "Don't  you?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "If  it  did,  I  do  not  think  you  would  be 
afraid  to  marry  me.  Don't  think  I  am  trying  to  persuade 
you!  I  am  not.  But  are  you  sure  that  in  refusing  me  you 
are  not  sacrificing  substance  to  shadow? " 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly.  "I  can't  be  more 
explicit.  No  doubt  you  will  follow  your  own  instincts. 
But  allow  me  to  say  that  I  don't  think  you  are  the  sort  of 
woman  to  go  through  life  unmated;  and  though  I  may  not  be 
romantic,  I  am  sound.  I  think  I  could  give  you  a  certain 
measure  of  happiness.  But  the  choice  is  yours.  I  can  only 
bow  to  your  decision." 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  his  speech  that  gave 
it  weight.  Avery  listened  in  silence,  and  into  silence  the 
words  passed. 

Several  seconds  slipped  away,  then  without  effort  Tudor 
came  back  to  everyday  things.  "Sit  down,  won't  you? 
Your  tea  is  getting  cold. " 

Avery  sat  down,  and  he  handed  it  to  her,  and  after  a 
moment  turned  aside  to  the  table. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  have  just  come  back 
from  the  Vicarage. " 

"Oh,  have  you?"  Avery  looked  round  quickly.  "You 
went  to  see  Jeanie?" 

"Yes."  Tudor  spoke  gravely.  "I  also  saw  the  Vicar. 
I  told  him  the  child  must  go  away.  That  cough  of  hers 
is  tearing  her  to  pieces.  She  ought  to  go  to  the  South 
Coast.  I  told  him  so." 

"Oh!  What  did  he  say?"  Avery  spoke  with  eagerness. 
She  had  been  longing  to  suggest  that  very  proposal  for 
some  time  past. 

Tudor  smiled  into  his  cup.  "He  said  it  was  a  total 
impossibility.  That  was  the  starting-point.  At  the  finish 


Substance  227 

it  was  practically  decided  that  you  should  take  her  away 
next  week. " 

"I!"saidAvery. 

"Yes,  you.  Mrs.  Lorimer  will  manage  all  right  now. 
The  nurse  can  look  after  her  and  the  little  ones  without 
assistance.  And  the  second  girl — Olive  isn't  it? — can  look 
after  the  Reverend  Stephen.  It's  all  arranged  in  fact,  unless 
it  fails  to  meet  with  your  approval,  in  which  case  of  course 
the  whole  business  must  be  reconsidered. " 

"But  of  course  I  approve,"  Avery  said.  "I  would  do 
anything  that  lay  in  my  power.  But  I  don't  quite  like  the 
idea  of  leaving  Mrs.  Lorimer." 

"She  will  be  all  right,"  Tudor  asserted  again.  "She 
wouldn't  be  happy  away  from  her  precious  husband,  and 
she  would  sooner  have  you  looking  after  Jeanie  than 
anyone.  She  told  me  so. " 

"She  always  thinks  of  others  first, "  said  Avery. 

"So  does  someone  else  I  know,"  rejoined  Tudor.  "It's 
just  a  habit  some  women  have, — not  always  a  good  habit 
from  some  points  of  view.  We  may  regard  it  as  settled 
then,  may  we?  You  really  have  no  objections  to  raise?" 

"None,"  said  Avery.  "I  think  the  idea  is  excellent.  I 
have  been  feeling  troubled  about  Jeanie  nearly  all  the 
winter.  This  last  cold  has  worn  her  out  terribly. " 

Tudor  nodded.     "Yes." 

He  drank  his  tea  thoughtfully,  and  then  spoke  again. 
"I  sounded  her  this  afternoon.  The  left  lung  is  not  in  a 
healthy  condition.  She  will  need  all  the  attention  you  can 
give  her  if  she  is  going  to  throw  off  the  mischief.  It  has  not 
gone  very  far  at  present,  but — to  be  frank  with  you — I  am 
very  far  from  satisfied  that  she  can  muster  the  strength.'1 
He  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  "I  have  not  said 
this  plainly  to  anyone  else.  I  don't  want  to  frighten  Mrs. 
Lorimer  before  I  need.  The  poor  soul  has  enough  to  bear 
without  this  added.  Possibly  the  change  will  work  wonders. 


£28  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Possibly  she  will  pull  round.  Children  have  marvellous 
recuperative  powers.  But  I  have  seen  this  sort  of  thing  a 
good  many  times  before,  and — "  he  came  back  to  the 
hearth — "it  doesn't  make  me  happy." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me, "  Avery  said. 

"  I  had  to  tell  you.  I  believe  you  more  than  half  sus 
pected  it."  Tudor  spoke  restlessly;  his  thoughts  were 
evidently  not  of  his  companion  at  that  moment.  "There 
are  of  course  a  good  many  points  in  her  favour.  She  is  a 
good,  obedient  child  with  a  placid  temperament.  And 
the  summer  is  before  us.  We  shall  have  to  work  hard  this 
summer,  Mrs.  Denys. "  He  smiled  at  her  abruptly.  "It 
is  like  building  a  sea-wall  when  the  tide  is  out.  We've  got 
to  make  it  as  strong  as  possible  before  the  tide  comes  back. " 

"You  may  rely  on  me  to  do  my  very  best,"  Avery  said 
earnestly. 

He  nodded.  "Thank  you.  I  know  I  may.  I  always  do. 
Hence  my  confidence  in  you.  May  I  give  you  some  more  tea  ?" 

He  quitted  the  subject  as  suddenly  as  he  had  embarked 
upon  it.  There  was  something  very  friendly  in  his  treat 
ment  of  her.  She  knew  with  unquestioning  intuition  that 
for  the  future  he  would  keep  strictly  within  the  bounds  of 
friendship  unless  he  had  her  permission  to  pass  beyond 
them.  And  it  was  this  knowledge  that  emboldened  her  at 
parting  to  say,  with  her  hand  in  his:  "You  are  very,  very 
good  to  me.  I  would  like  to  thank  you  if  I  could. " 

He  pressed  her  hand  with  the  kindness  of  an  old  friend. 
"No,  don't  thank  me!"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  in  a  way 
that  somehow  went  to  her  heart.  "  I  shall  always  be  at  your 
service.  But  I'd  rather  you  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I  feel  more  comfortable  that  way. " 

Avery  left  him  at  length  and  trudged  home  through  the 
mud  with  a  curious  feeling  of  uncertainty  in  her  soul.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  been  vouchsafed  a  far  glimpse  of 
destiny  which  had  been  too  fleeting  for  her  comprehension. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SHADOW 

THE  preparations  that  must  inevitably  precede  a  de 
parture  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time  kept  Avery 
from  dwelling  overmuch  on  what  had  passed  on  that  gusty 
afternoon  when  she  had  taken  shelter  in  the  doctor's 
house. 

Whether  or  not  she  believed  the  rumour  concerning  Piers 
she  scarcely  asked  herself.  For  some  reason  into  which 
she  did  not  enter  she  was  firmly  resolved  to  exclude  him 
from  her  mind,  and  she  welcomed  the  many  occupations 
that  kept  her  thoughts  engrossed.  No  word  from  him 
had  reached  her  since  that  daring  letter  written  nearly 
three  months  before,  just  after  his  departure.  It  seemed 
that  he  had  accepted  her  answer  just  as  she  had  meant  him 
to  accept  it,  and  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  say.  So  at 
least  she  viewed  the  matter,  not  suffering  any  inward 
question  to  arise. 

She  saw  Lennox  Tudor  several  times  before  the  last  day 
arrived.  He  did  not  seek  her  out.  It  simply  came  about 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  He  was  plainly  deter 
mined  that  neither  in  public  nor  private  should  there  be 
any  secret  sense  of  embarrassment  between  them.  And  for 
this  also  she  was  grateful,  liking  him  for  his  blunt  consider 
ation  for  her  better  than  she  had  ever  liked  him  before. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  day  preceding  her  departure 
with  Jeanie  that  she  ran  down  in  the  dusk  to  the  post  at  the 

229  _ 


The  Bars  of  Iron 

end  of  the  lane  with  a  letter.  Her  Australian  friend  had 
written  to  propose  a  visit,  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  put 
him  off. 

There  was  a  bitter  wind  blowing,  but  she  hastened  along 
hatless,  with  a  cloak  thrown  round  her  shoulders.  Past  the 
church  with  its  sheltering  yew-trees  she  ran,  intent  only 
upon  executing  her  errand  in  as  short  a  time  as  possible. 

Her  hair  blew  loose  about  her  face,  and  before  she  reached 
her  goal  she  was  ashamed  of  her  untidiness,  but  it  was  not 
worth  while  to  return  for  a  hat,  and  she  pressed  on  with  a 
girl's  impetuosity,  hoping  that  she  would  meet  no  one. 

The  hope  was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  She  reached  the  box 
and  deposited  her  letter  therein,  but  as  she  turned  from 
doing  so,  there  came  the  fall  of  a  horse's  hoofs  along  the 
road  at  the  end  of  the  lane. 

She  caught  the  sound,  and  was  pierced  by  a  sudden,  quite 
unaccountable  suspicion.  Swiftly  she  gathered  her  cloak 
more  securely  about  her,  and  hastened  away. 

Instantly  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  hoof-beats  quickened. 
The  lane  was  steep,  and  she  realized  in  a  moment  that  if  the 
rider  turned  up  in  her  wake,  she  must  very  speedily  be 
overtaken.  She  slackened  her  pace  therefore,  and  walked 
on  more  quietly,  straining  her  ears  to  listen,  not  venturing 
to  look  back. 

Round  the  corner  came  the  advancing  animal  at  a  brisk 
trot.  She  had  known  in  her  heart  that  it  would  be  so. 
She  had  known  from  the  first  moment  of  hearing  those 
hoof-beats,  that  Fate,  strong  and  relentless,  was  on  her 
track. 

How  she  had  known  it  she  could  not  have  said,  but  the 
wild  clamour  of  her  heart  stifled  any  reasoning  that  she 
might  have  tried  to  form.  Her  breath  came  and  went  like 
the  breath  of  a  hunted  creature.  She  could  not  hurry 
because  of  the  trembling  of  her  knees.  Every  instinct  was 
urging  her  to  flee,  but  she  lacked  the  strength.  She  drew 


Shadow  231 

instead  nearer  to  the  wall,  hoping  against  hope  that  in  the 
gathering  darkness  he  would  pass  her  by. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  hammering  hoofs.  She  could 
hear  the  horse's  sharp  breathing,  the  creak  of  leather.  And 
then  suddenly  she  found  she  could  go  no  further.  She 
stopped  and  leaned  against  the  wall. 

She  saw  the  animal  pulled  suddenly  in,  and  knew  that  she 
was  caught.  With  a  great  effort  she  lifted  a  smiling  face, 
and  simulated  surprise. 

"You!     How  do  you  do?" 

"You  knew  it  was  me,  "  said  Piers  rather  curtly. 

He  dropped  from  the  saddle  with  the  easy  grace  that 
always  marked  his  movements,  and  came  to  her,  leaving 
the  animal  free. 

"Why  were  you  running  away  from  me? "  he  said.  "  Did 
you  want  to  cut  me?" 

He  must  have  felt  the  trembling  of  her  hand,  for  all  in  a 
moment  his  manner  changed.  His  fingers  closed  upon 
hers  with  warm  assurance.  He  suddenly  laughed  into 
her  face. 

"Don't  answer  either  of  those  questions!"  he  said. 
"  Didn't  you  expect  to  see  me?  We  came  home  yesterday, 
thank  the  gods!  I'm  deadly  sick  of  being  away." 

"  Haven't  you  enjoyed  yourself? "  Avery  managed  to  ask. 

He  laughed  again  somewhat  grimly.  "I  wasn't  out  for 
enjoyment.  I've  been — amusing  myself  more  or  less. 
But  that's  not  the  same  thing,  is  it  ?  I  should  have  drowned 
myself  if  I'd  stayed  out  there  much  longer. " 

"Don't  talk  nonsense!"  said  Avery. 

She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  sharpness.  Her  agitation  had 
passed  leaving  her  vexed  with  herself  and  with  him. 

He  received  the  admonition  with  a  grimace.  "  Have  you 
heard  about  my  engagement  yet? "  he  enquired  irrelevantly, 
after  a  moment. 

Avery  looked  at  him  very  steadily  through  the  falling' 


232  The  Bars  of  Iron 

dusk.     She  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  trying  to  hoodwink 
her  by  some  means  not  wholly  praiseworthy. 

"Are  you  engaged?"  she  asked  him,  point-blank. 

He  made   a   careless   gesture.     "Everybody   says   so." 

"Are  you  engaged?"  Avery  repeated  with  resolution. 

She  freed  her  hand  as  she  uttered  the  question  the  second 
time.  She  was  standing  up  very  straight  against  the 
churchyard  wall  sternly  determined  to  check  all  trifling. 

Piers  straightened  himself  also.     From  the  pride  of  his 
attitude  she  thought  that  he  was  about  to  take  offence,  but 
his  voice  held  none  as  he  made  reply. 
n    "I  am  not." 

She  felt  as  if  some  constriction  at  her  heart,  of  which  till 
that  moment  she  had  scarcely  been  aware,  had  suddenly 
slackened.  She  drew  a  long,  deep  breath. 

"Sorry,  what?"  suggested  Piers. 

He  began  to  tap  a  careless  tattoo  with  his  whip  on  the 
toe  of  his  boot.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  regarding  her  very 
closely.  Yet  she  did  not  feel  at  her  ease.  That  sudden 
sense  as  of  strain  relaxed  had  left  her  curiously  unsteady. 

She  ignored  his  question  and  asked  another.  "Yv7hy  is 
everybody  saying  that  you  are  engaged?" 

He  lifted  his  shoulders.  "Because  everybody  is  more 
or  less  of  a  gossiping  fool,  I  should  say.  Still,"  he  threw 
up  his  head  with  a  laugh,  "notions  of  that  sort  have  their 
uses.  My  grandfather  for  instance  is  firmly  of  the  opinion 
that  I  have  come  home  to  be  married.  I  didn't  undeceive 
him." 

"You  let  him  believe — what  wasn't  true?"  said  Avery 
slowly. 

He  looked  straight  at  her,  with  his  head  flung  back.  "I 
did.  It  suited  my  purpose.  I  wanted  to  get  home.  He 
thought  it  was  because  the  Roses  had  returned  to  Warden- 
hurst.  I  let  him  think  so.  It  certainly  was  deadly  without 
them." 


Shadow  233 

It  was  then  that  Avery  turned  and  began  quietly  to  walk 
on  up  the  hill.  He  linked  his  arm  in  Pompey's  bridle,  and 
walked  beside  her. 

She  spoke  after  a  few  moments  with  something  of  con 
straint.  "And  how  have  you  been — amusing  yourself?" 

"I?"  Carelessly  he  made  reply.  "I  have  been  play 
ing  around  with  Ina  Rose  chiefly — to  save  us  both  from 
boredom." 

There  sounded  a  faint  jeering  note  behind  the  carelessness 
of  his  voice.  Avery  quickened  her  pace  almost  uncon 
sciously. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Piers.  "There's  been  no  damage 
done. " 

"You  don't  know  that,"  said  Avery,  without  looking  at 
him. 

"Yes,  I  do.  She'll  marry  Dick  Guyes.  I  told  her  she 
would  the  night  before  they  left,  and  she  didn't  say  she 
wouldn't.  He's  a  much  better  chap  than  I  am,  you  know, " 
said  Piers,  with  an  odd  touch  of  sincerity.  "And  he's  head 
over  ears  in  love  with  her  into  the  bargain-  " 

"Are  you  trying  to  excuse  yourself?"  said  Avery. 

He  laughed.  "What  for?  For  not  marrying  Ina  Rose? 
I  assure  you  I  never  meant  to  marry  her. " 

"For  trifling  with  her. "  Avery 's  voice  was  hard,  but  he 
affected  not  to  notice. 

"A  game's  a  game,"  he  said  lightly. 

Avery  stopped  very  suddenly  and  faced  round  upon  him. 
"That  sort  of  game, "  she  said,  and  her  voice  throbbed  with 
the  intensity  of  her  indignation,  "is  monstrous — is  con 
temptible — a  game  that  none  but  blackguards  ever  stoop 
to  play!" 

Piers  stood  still.     "Great  Scott!"  he  said  softly. 

Avery  swept  on.  Once  roused,  she  was  ruthless  in  her 
arraignment. 

"Men — some  men — find  it  amusing  to  go  through  life 


234  The  Bars  of  Iron 

breaking  women's  hearts  just  for  the  sport  of  the  thing. 
They  regard  it  as  a  pastime,  in  the  same  light  as  fox-hunt 
ing  or  cards  or  racing.  And  when  the  game  is  over,  they 
laugh  among  themselves  and  say  what  fools  women  are. 
And  so  they  may  be,  and  so  they  are,  many  of  them.  But 
is  it  honourable,  is  it  manly,  to  take  advantage  of  their 
weakness?  I  never  thought  you  were  that  sort.  I  thought 
you  were  at  least  honest. " 

"Did  you?"  said  Piers. 

He  was  holding  himself  very  straight  and  stiff,  just  as  he 
had  held  himself  on  that  day  in  the  winter  when  she  had  so 
indignantly  intervened  to  save  his  dog  from  his  ungovernable 
fury.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  resent  her  attack,  and  in 
spite  of  herself  Avery's  own  resentment  began  to  wane.  She 
suddenly  remembered  that  her  very  protest  was  an  admis 
sion  of  intimacy  of  which  he  would  not  scruple  to  avail 
himself  if  it  suited  his  purpose,  and  with  this  thought  in 
her  mind  she  paused  in  confusion. 

"Won't  you  finish?"  said  Piers. 

She  turned  to  leave  him.     "That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

He  put  out  a  restraining  hand.  "Then  may  I  say 
something?" 

The  request  was  so  humbly  uttered  that  she  could  not 
refuse  it.  She  remained  wnere  she  was. 

"I  should  like  you  to  know,"  said  Piers,  "that  I  have 
never  given  Miss  Rose  or  any  other  girl  with  whom  I  have 
flirted  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  reason  for  believing  that  I 
was  in  earnest.  That  is  the  truth — on  my  honour. " 

"I  wonder  if — they — would  say  the  same, "  said  Avery. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No  one  ever  before  accused 
me  of  being  a  lady-killer.  As  to  your  other  charge  against 
me,  it  was  not  I  who  deceived  my  grandfather.  It  was  he 
who  deceived  himself. " 

"Isn't  that  a  distinction  without  a  difference?"  said 
Avery,  in  a  low  voice. 


Sh'adow  235 

She  was  beginning  to  wish  that  she  had  not  spoken  with 
such  vehemence.  After  all,  what  were  his  delinquencies 
to  her?  She  almost  expected  him  to  ask  the  question;  but 
he  did  not. 

"Do  you  mind  explaining?"  he  said. 

With  an  effort  she  made  response.  "You  can't  say  it  was 
honourable  to  let  your  grandfather  come  home  in  the  belief 
that  you  wanted  to  become  engaged  to  Miss  Rose." 

"Have  I  said  so?"  said  Piers. 

Avery  paused.  She  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  uncertainty  as 
if  he  had  kicked  away  a  foothold  upon  which  she  had  rashly 
attempted  to  rest. 

"You  admit  that  it  was  not?"  she  said. 

He  smiled  a  little.  "I  admit  that  it  was  not  strictly 
honest,  but  I  didn't  see  much  harm  in  it.  In  any  case  it  was 
high  time  we  came  home,  and  it  gave  him  the  impetus  to 
move. " 

"And  when  are  you  going  to  tell  him  the  truth?"  said 
Avery. 

Piers  was  silent. 

Looking  at  him  through  the  dusk,  she  was  aware  of  a 
change  in  his  demeanour,  though  as  to  its  nature  she  was 
slightly  doubtful. 

"And  if  I  don't  tell  him?"  said  Piers  at  length. 

"You  will,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should. "  Piers'  voice  was  dogged. 
"He'll  know  fast  enough — when  she  gets  engaged  to 
Guyes." 

"Know  that  you  have  played  a  double  game,"  said 
Avery. 

"Well?"  he  said.     "And  if  he  does?" 

"I  think  you  will  be  sorry — then,"  she  said. 

Somehow  she  could  not  be  angry  any  longer.  He  had 
accepted  her  rebuke  in  so  docile  a  spirit.  She  did  not 
wholly  understand  his  attitude.  Yet  it  softened  her. 


236  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Why  should  I  be  sorry?"  said  Piers. 

She  answered  him  quickly  and  impulsively.  "Because 
it  isn't  your  nature  to  deceive.  You  are  too  honest  at  heart 
to  do  it  and  be  happy. " 

"Happy!"  said  Piers,  an  odd  note  of  emotion  in  his  voice. 
"Do  you  suppose  I'm  ever  that — or  ever  likely  to  be?" 

She  recoiled  a  little  from  the  suppressed  vehemence  of  his 
tone,  but  almost  instantly  he  put  out  his  hand  again  to  her 
with  a  gesture  of  boyish  persuasion. 

"Don't  rag  me,  Avery!  I've  had  a  filthy  time  lately. 
And  when  I  saw  you  cut  and  run  at  sight  of  me — I  just 
couldn't  stand  it.  I've  been  wanting  to  answer  your  letter, 
but  I  couldn't. " 

"But  why  should  you?"  Avery  broke  in  gently.  "My 
letter  was  the  answer  to  yours. " 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  because  she  could  not  help  it. 

He  held  it  in  a  hungry  clasp.  "I  know — I  know,"  he 
said  rather  incoherently.  "It — it  was  very  decent  of  you 
not  to  be  angry.  I  believe  I  let  myself  go  rather — what? 
Thanks  awfully  for  being  so  sweet  about  it!" 

" My  dear  boy, "  Avery  said,  "you  thank  me  for  nothing! 
The  matter  is  past.  Don't  let  us  re-open  it ! " 

She  spoke  with  unconscious  appeal.  His  hand  squeezed 
hers  in  instant  response.  "All  right.  We  won't.  And 
look  here, — if  you  want  me  to  tell  my  grandfather  that  he 
has  been  building  his  castle  in  the  air, — it'll  mean  a  row 
of  course,  but — I'll  do  it." 

"Will  you?"  said  Avery. 

He  nodded.  "  Yes — as  you  wish  it.  And  may  I  come  to 
tea  with  Jeanie  to-morrow?" 

His  dark  eyes  smiled  suddenly  into  hers  as  he  dropped  her 
hand.  She  had  a  momentary  feeling  of  uncertainty  as  she 
met  them — a  sense  of  doubt  that  disquieted  her  strangely. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  softly  closed  a  door  against  her  some 
where  in  his  soul. 


Substance  237 

With  a  curious  embarrassment  she  answered  him.  "  Jeanie 
has  not  been  well  all  the  winter.  Dr.  Tudor  has  ordered  a 
change,  and  we  are  going — she  and  I — to  Stanbury  Cliffs 
to-morrow." 

' '  Are  you  though  ? ' '  He  opened  his  eyes.  ' '  Just  you  and 
she,  eh?  What  a  cosy  party!" 

"The  other  children  will  probably  join  us  for  the  Easter 
holidays,"  Avery  said.  "It's  a  nice  place,  they  say.  Do 
you  know  it?" 

"I  should  think  I  do.  Victor  and  I  used  to  go  there 
regularly  when  I  was  a  kid.  It  was  there  I  learnt  to 
swim." 

"Who  is  Victor?"  asked  Avery,  beginning  to  walk  on  up 
the  hill. 

"Victor?  Oh,  he's  my  French  nurse — the  best  chap  who 
ever  walked.  We  are  great  pals, "  laughed  Piers.  "And  so 
you're  off  to-morrow,  are  you?  Hope  you'll  have  a  good 
time.  Give  my  love  to  the  kiddie!  She  isn't  really  ill, 
what?" 

"Dr.  Tudor  is  not  satisfied  about  her,"  Avery  said. 

"Oh,  Tudor!"  Piers  spoke  with  instant  disparage 
ment.  "I  don't  suppose  he's  any  good.  What  does  he  say 
anyway?" 

"He  is  afraid  of  lung  trouble,"  Avery  said.  "But  we 
hope  the  change  is  going  to  do  wonders  for  her.  Do  you 
know,  I  think  I  must  run  in  now?  I  have  several  little 
jobs  still  to  get  through  this  evening." 

Piers  stopped  at  once.  "Good-bye!"  he  said.  "I'm  glad 
I  saw  you.  Take  care  of  yourself,  Avery!  And  the  next 
time  you  see  me  coming — don't  run  away!" 

He  set  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  swung  himself  up  into 
the  saddle.  Pompey  immediately  began  to  execute  an 
elaborate  dance  in  the  roadway,  rendering  further  conver 
sation  out  of  the  question.  Piers  waved  his  cap  in  careless 
adieu,  and  turned  the  animal  round.  In  another  moment 


238  The  Bars  of  Iron 

he  was  tearing  down  the  lane  at  a  gallop,  and  A  very  was  left 
looking  after  him  still  with  that  curious  sense  of  doubt 
lying  cold  at  her  heart. 

The  sight  of  a  black,  clerical  figure  emerging  from  the 
churchyard  caused  her  to  turn  swiftly  and  pursue  her  way 
to  the  Vicarage  gate.  But  the  sounds  of  those  galloping 
hoofs  still  wrought  within  her  as  she  went.  They  beat  upon 
her  spirit  with  a  sense  of  swift-moving  Destiny. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    EVESHAM    DEVIL 

"  CONFOUND  the  boy!"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

\^t  He  rose  up  from  the  black  oak  settle  in  the 
hall  with  a  jerky  movement  of  irritation,  and  tramped  to 
the  front-door. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  strange  soft  days  that  some 
times  come  in  the  midst  of  blustering  March  storms,  and 
though  the  sun  had  long  gone  down  the  warmth  still 
lingered.  It  might  have  been  an  evening  in  May. 

He  opened  the  great  door  with  an  impatient  hand.  What 
on  earth  was  the  boy  doing?  Had  he  gone  love-making 
to  Wardenhurst?  A  grim  smile  touched  the  old  man's 
grim  lips  as  this  thought  occurred  to  him.  That  he  was  not 
wasting  his  time  nearer  home  he  was  fairly  convinced; 
for  only  that  morning  he  had  heard  from  Lennox  Tudor 
that  the  mother's  help  at  the  Vicarage,  over  whom  in  the 
winter  Piers  had  been  inclined  to  make  a  fool  of  himself, 
had  taken  one  of  the  children  away  for  a  change.  It 
seemed  more  than  probable  by  this  time  that  Piers'  wander 
ing  fancy  had  wholly  ceased  to  stray  in  her  direction,  but 
the  news  of  her  absence  had  caused  Sir  Beverley  undoubted 
satisfaction.  He  hoped  his  boy  would  not  encounter  that 
impertinent,  scheming  woman  again  until  he  was  safely 
engaged  to  Ina  Rose.  That  this  engagement  was  imminent 
Sir  Beverley  was  fully  convinced.  His  only  wonder  was 
that  it  had  not  taken  place  sooner.  The  two  had  been 

239 


240  The  Bars  of  Iron 

thrown  together  almost  daily  during  the  sojourn  of  Colonel 
Rose  and  his  daughter  at  Mentone,  and  they  had  always 
seemed  to  enjoy  each  other's  society.  Of  course  Sir  Bever- 
ley  did  not  like  the  girl.  He  actively  disliked  the  whole 
female  species.  But  she  belonged  to  the  county,  and  she 
seemed  moreover  to  be  a  normal  healthy  young  woman 
who  would  be  the  mother  of  normal  healthy  children. 
And  this  was  the  sort  of  wife  Piers  wanted.  For  Piers — • 
drat  the  boy! — was  not  normal.  He  inherited  a  good  deal 
of  his  Italian  grandmother's  temperament  as  well  as  her 
beauty.  And  life  was  not  likely  to  be  a  very  easy  matter 
for  him  in  consequence. 

But  an  ordinary  young  English  wife  of  his  own  rank 
would  be  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  So  reasoned  Sir 
Beverley,  who  had  taken  that  fatal  step  in  the  wrong  one 
in  his  youth  and  had  never  recovered  the  ground  thus 
lost. 

Standing  there  at  the  open  door,  he  dwelt  upon  his  boy's 
future  with  a  kind  of  grim  pleasure  that  was  not  unmixed 
with  'heartache.  He  and  his  wife  would  have  to  go  and 
live  at  the  Dower  House  of  course.  No  feminine  truck 
at  the  Abbey  for  him!  But  the  lad  should  continue  to 
manage  the  estate  with  him.  That  would  bring  them  in 
contact  every  day.  He  couldn't  do  without  that  much. 
The  evenings  would  be  lonely  enough.  He  pictured  the 
long  silent  dinners  with  a  weary  frown.  How  infernally 
lonely  the  Abbey  could  be ! 

The  steady  tick  of  the  clock  in  the  corner  forced  itself 
upon  his  notice.  He  swore  at  it  under  his  breath,  and 
went  out  upon  the  steps. 

At  the  same  instant  a  view-halloo  from  the  dark  avenue 
greeted  him,  and  in  spite  of  himself  his  face  softened. 

"Hullo,  you  rascal!"  he  shouted  back.  "What  the 
devil  are  you  up  to?" 

Piers  came  running  up,  light-footed  and  alert.     "I've 


The  Evesham  Devil  241 

been  unlucky,"  he  explained.  "Had  two  punctures. 
I  left  the  car  at  the  garage  and  came  on  as  quickly  as  I 
could.  I  say,  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I've  been  with  Dick 
Guyes." 

Sir  Beverley  growled  inarticulately,  and  turned  inwards. 
So  he  had  not  been  to  the  Roses'  after  all ! 

"Get  along  with  you!"  he  said.  "And  dress  as  fast  as 
you  can!" 

And  Piers  bounded  past  him  and  went  up  the  stairs  in 
three  great  leaps.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  younger 
during  the  few  days  that  had  elapsed  since  their  return, 
more  ardent,  more  keenly  alive.  The  English  spring  seemed 
to  exhilarate  him;  but  for  the  first  time  Sir  Beverley  began 
to  have  his  doubts  as  to  the  reason  for  his  evident  pleasure 
in  returning.  What  on  earth  had  he  been  to  see  Guyes 
for?  Guyes  of  all  people — who  was  well-known  as  one 
of  Miss  Ina's  most  devoted  adorers! 

It  was  evident  that  the  news  he  desired  to  hear  would  not 
be  imparted  to  him  that  night,  and  Sir  Beverley  considered 
himself  somewhat  aggrieved  in  consequence.  He  was 
decidedly  short  with  Piers  when  he  reappeared — a  fact 
which  in  no  way  disturbed  his  grandson's  equanimity.  He 
talked  cheery  commonplaces  throughout  dinner  without 
effort,  regardless  of  Sir  Beverley's  discouraging  attitude, 
and  it  was  not  till  dessert  was  placed  upon  the  table  that 
he  allowed  his  conversational  energies  to  flag. 

Then  indeed,  as  David  finally  and  ceremoniously  with 
drew,  did  he  suddenly  seem  to  awake  to  the  fact  that 
conversation  was  no  longer  a  vital  necessity,  and  forthwith 
dropped  into  an  abrupt,  uncompromising  silence. 

It  lasted  for  a  space  of  minutes  during  which  neither  of 
them  stirred  or  uttered  a  syllable,  becoming  at  length 
ominous  as  the  electric  stillness  before  the  storm. 

They  came  through  it  characteristically,  Sir  Beverley 
staring  fixedly  before  him  under  the  frown  that  was  seldom 


242  The  Bars  of  Iron 

wholly  absent  from  his  face;  Piers,  steady-eyed  and  intent, 
keenly  watching  the  futile  agonies  of  a  night-moth  among 
the  candles.  There  was  about  him  a  massive,  statuesque 
look  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  pulsing  vitality  of  a  few 
minutes  before. 

It  was  Sir  Beverley  who  broke  the  silence  at  last  with  a 
species  of  inarticulate  snarl  peculiarly  his  own.  Piers* 
dark  eyes  were  instantly  upon  him,  but  he  said  nothing, 
merely  waiting  for  the  words  to  which  this  sound  was  the 
preface. 

Sir  Beverley's  brow  was  thunderous.  He  looked  back 
at  Piers  with  a  piercing  grim  regard. 

"'Well?"  he  said.  "What  fool  idea  have  you  got  in 
your  brain  now?  I  suppose  I've  got  to  hear  it  sooner  or 
later." 

It  was  not  a  conciliatory  speech,  yet  Piers  received  it 
with  no  visible  resentment.  "I  don't  know  that  I  want 
to  say  anything  very  special,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  growled  Sir  Beverley.  "Then  what 
are  you  thinking  about?  Tell  me  that!" 

Piers  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "I  was  thinking  about 
Dick  Guyes, "  he  said.  "He  is  dining  at  the  Roses' 
to-night." 

"Oh!"  said  Sir  Beverley  shortly. 

A  faint  smile  came  at  the  corners  of  Piers'  mouth.  "He 
wants  to  propose  to  Ina  for  about  the  hundred  and  ninetieth 
time,"  he  said,  "but  doesn't  know  if  he  can  screw  himself 
up  to  it.  I  told  him  not  to  be  such  a  shy  ass.  She  is 
only  waiting  for  him  to  speak." 

"Eh?"  said  Sir  Beverley. 

A  queer  little  dancing  gleam  leaped  up  in  Piers'  eyes — 
the  gleam  that  had  invariably  heralded  some  piece  of 
especial  devilry  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood. 

"I  told  him  she  was  his  for  the  asking,  sir,"  he  said 


The  Evesham  Devil  243 

coolly,  "and  promised  not  to  flirt  with  her  any  more  till 
they  were  safely  married." 

"Damn  you!"  exclaimed  Sir  Beverley  violently  and 
without  warning. 

He  had  a  glass  of  wine  in  front  of  him,  and  with  the 
words  his  fingers  gripped  the  stem.  In  another  second 
he  would  have  hurled  the  liquid  full  in  Piers'  face;  but 
Piers  was  too  quick  for  him.  Quick  as  lightning,  his  own 
hand  shot  out  across  the  corner  of  the  table  and  grasped 
the  old  man's  wrist. 

"No,  sir!     No !"  he  said  sternly. 

They  glared  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  Sir  Beverley 
uttered  a  furious  oath;  but  after  the  first  instinctive  effort 
to  free  himself  he  did  no  more. 

At  the  end  of  possibly  thirty  seconds  Piers  took  his  hand 
away.  He  pushed  back  his  chair  in  the  same  movement 
and  rose. 

"Shall  we  talk  in  the  library?"  he  said.  "This  room  is 
hot." 

Sir  Beverley  raised  the  wine-glass  to  his  lips  with  a  hand 
that  shook,  and  drained  it  deliberately. 

"Yes, "  he  said  then.     "We  will— talk  in  the  library." 

He  got  up  with  an  agility  that  he  seldom  displayed,  and 
turned  to  the  door.  As  he  went  he  glanced  up  suddenly 
at  the  softly  mocking  face  on  the  wall,  and  a  sharp  spasm 
contracted  his  harsh  features.  But  he  scarcely  paused. 
Without  further  words  he  left  the  room ;  and  Piers  followed, 
light  of  tread,  behind  him. 

The  study  windows  stood  wide  open  to  the  night.  Piers 
crossed  the  room  and  quietly  closed  them.  Then,  without 
haste  and  without  hesitation,  he  came  to  the  table  and 
stopped  before  it. 

"I  never  intended  -to  marry  Ina  Rose,"  he  said.  "I 
was  only  amusing  myself — and  her." 

"The  devil  you  were!"  ejaculated  Sir  Beverlev. 


244  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Piers  went  on  with  the  utmost  steadiness.  "We  are 
not  in  the  least  suited  to  one  another,  and  we  have  the 
sense  to  realize  it.  The  next  time  Guyes  asks  her,  I  believe 
she  will  have  him." 

"Sense!"  roared  Sir  Beverley.  "Do  you  dare  to  talk 
to  me  of  sense,  you — you  blind  fool?  Mighty  lot  of  sense 
you  can  boast  of!  And  what  the  devil  does  it  matter 
whether  you  suit  one  another — as  you  call  it — or  not,  so 
long  as  you  keep  the  whip-hand?  You'll  tell  me  next 
that  you're  not — in  love  with  her,  I  suppose?" 

The  bitterness  of  the  last  words  seemed  to  shake  him 
from  head  to  foot.  He  looked  at  Piers  with  the  memory 
of  a  past  torment  in  his  eyes.  And  because  of  it  Piers 
turned  away  his  own. 

"It's  quite  true,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am 
not — in  love  with  her.  I  never  have  been." 

Sir  Beverley 's  fist  crashed  down  upon  the  table.  "Love ! " 
he  thundered.  "Love!  Do  you  want  to  make  me  sick? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  I  would  sooner  see  you  in  your  coffin  than 
married  to  a  woman  with  whom  you  imagined  yourself  in 
love.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  have  in  your  mind.  I've 
known  for  a  long  time.  You're  caught  in  the  toils  of  that 
stiff-necked,  scheming  Judy  at  the  Vicarage,  who " 

"Sir!"  blazed  forth  Piers. 

He  leaned  across  the  table  with  a  face  gone  suddenly 
white,  and  struck  his  own  fist  upon  the  polished  oak  with  a 
passionate  force  that  compelled  attention. 

Sir  Beverley  ceased  his  tirade  in  momentary  astonish 
ment.  Such  violence  from  Piers  was  unusual. 

Instantly  Piers  went  on  speaking,  his  voice  quick  and 
low,  quivering  with  the  agitation  that  he  had  no  time  to 
subdue.  "I  won't  hear  another  word  on  that  subject! 
You  hear  me,  sir?  Not  one  worcl!  It  is  sacred,  and  as 
such  I  will  have  it  treated." 

But  the  check  upon  Sir  Beverley  was  but  brief,  and  the 


The  Evesham  Devil  245 

flame  of  his  anger  burned  all  the  more  fiercely  in  consequence 
of  it.  He  broke  in  upon  those  few  desperate  words  of 
Piers'  with  redoubled  fury. 

"You  will  have  this,  and  you  won't  have  that!  Con 
found  you!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean?  Are  you  master 
in  this  house,  or  am  I?" 

"I  am  master  where  my  own  actions  are  concerned," 
threw  back  Piers.  "And  what  I  do — what  I  decide  to 
do — is  my  affair  alone." 

Swiftly  he  uttered  the  words.  His  breathing  came  quick 
and  short  as  the  breathing  of  a  man  hard  pressed.  He 
seemed  to  be  holding  back  every  straining  nerve  with  a 
blind  force  that  was  physical  rather  than  mental. 

He  drew  himself  suddenly  erect  as  he  spoke.  He  had 
flung  down  the  gauntlet  of  his  independence  at  last,  and  with 
clenched  hands  he  waited  for  the  answer  to  his  challenge. 

It  came  upon  him  like  a  whirlwind.  Sir  Beverley  uttered 
an  oath  that  fell  with  the  violence  of  a  blow,  and  after  it  a 
tornado  of  furious  speech  against  which  it  was  futile  to 
attempt  to  raise  any  protest.  He  could  only  stand  as  it 
were  at  bay,  like  an  animal  protecting  its  own,  fiery- 
veined,  quivering,  yet  holding  back  from  the  spring. 

Not  for  any  insult  to  himself  would  he  quit  that  attitude. 
He  was  striving  desperately  to  keep  his  self-control.  He 
had  been  within  an  ace  of  losing  it,  as  the  blood  that  oozed 
over  his  closed  fist  testified;  but,  for  the  sake  of  that  man 
hood  which  he  was  seeking  to  assert,  he  made  a  Titanic 
effort  to  command  himself. 

And  Sir  Beverley,  feeling  the  dumb  strength  that  opposed 
him,  resenting  the  forbearance  with  which  he  was  con 
fronted,  infuriated  by  the  unexpected  force  of  the  boy's 
resistance,  turned  with  a  snarl  to  seize  and  desecrate  that 
which  he  had  been  warned  was  holy. 

"As  for  this  designing  woman,  I  tell  you,  she  is  not  for 
you, — not,  that  is,  in  any  honourable  sonse.  If  you  choose 


246  The  Bars  of  Iron 

to  make  a  fool  of  her,  that's  your  affair.  I  suppose  you'll 
sow  the  usual  crop  of  wild  oats  before  you've  done.  But 
as  to  marrying  her ' 

"By  God,  sir!"  broke  in  Piers  passionately.  "Do  you 
imagine  that  I  propose  to  do  anything  else?" 

The  words  came  from  him  like  a  cry  wrung  from  a  man 
in  torture,  and  as  he  uttered  them  the  last  of  his  self- 
control  slipped  from  his  grasp.  Wjth  a  face  gone  suddenly 
devilish,  he  strode  round  the  table  and  stood  before  his 
grandfather,  furiously  threatening. 

"I  have  warned  you!"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low, 
sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  "You  can  say  what  you  like 
of  me.  I'm  used  to  it.  But — if  you  speak  evil  of  her — 
I'll  treat  you  as  I  would  any  other  blackguard  who  dared 
to  insult  her.  And  now  that  we  are  on  the  subject,  I  will 
tell  you  this.  If  I  do  not  marry  this  woman  whom  I  love — 
I  swear  that  I  will  never  marry  at  all!  That  is  my  final 
word!" 

He  hurled  the  last  sentence  in  Sir  Beverley's  face,  and 
with  it  he  would  have  swung  round  upon  his  heel;  but 
something  in  that  face  detained  him. 

Sir  Beverley's  eyes  were  shining  with  an  icy,  intolerable 
sparkle.  His  thin  lips  were  drawn  in  the  dreadful  semblance 
of  a  smile.  He  was  half-a-head  taller  than  Piers,  and  he 
seemed  to  tower  above  him  in  that  moment  of  conflict. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  said.     "Wait  a  minute!" 

His  right  hand  was  feeling  along  the  leathern  surface  of 
the  writing-table,  but  neither  his  eyes  nor  Piers'  followed 
the  movement.  They  held  each  other  in  a  fixed,  unalterable 
glare. 

There  followed  several  moments  of  complete  and  terrible 
silence — a  silence  more  fraught  with  violence  than  any 
speech. 

Then,  with  a  slight  jerk,  Sir  Beverley  leaned  towards 
Piers.  "So,"  he  said,  "you  defy  me,  do  you?" 


The  Evesham  Devil  247 

His  voice  was  as  grim  as  his  look.  A  sudden,  odd  sense 
of  fear  went  through  Piers.  Sharply  the  thought  ran 
through  his  mind  that  the  same  Evesham  devil  possessed 
them  both.  It  was  as  if  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
monster  gibing  at  his  elbow,  goading  him,  goading  them 
both. 

He  made  a  sharp,  involuntary  movement;  he  almost 
flinched  from  those  pitiless,  stony  eyes. 

"Ha!"  Sir  Beverley  uttered  a  brief  and  very  bitter 
laugh.  "You've  begun  to  think  better  of  it,  eh?" 

"No,  sir."  Curtly  Piers  made  answer,  speaking  because 
he  must.  "I  meant  what  I  said,  and  I  shall  stick  to  it. 
But  it  wasn't  for  the  sake  of  defying  you  that  I  said  it. 
I  have  a  better  reason  than  that." 

He  was  still  quivering  with  anger,  yet  because  of  that 
gibing  devil  at  his  elbow  he  strove  to  speak  temperately, 
strove  to  hold  back  the  raging  flood  of  fierce  resentment 
that  threatened  to  overwhelm  him. 

As  for  Sir  Beverley,  he  had  never  attempted  to  control 
himself  in  moments  such  as  these,  and  he  did  not  attempt 
to  do  so  now.  Before  Piers'  words  were  fairly  uttered, 
he  had  raised  his  right  hand  and  in  it  a  stout,  two-foot 
ruler  that  he  had  taken  from  the  writing-table. 

"Take  that  then,  you  young  dog!"  he  shouted,  and 
struck  Piers  furiously,  as  he  stood.  "And  that!  And 
that!" 

The  third  blow  never  fell.  It  was  caught  in  mid-air 
by  Piers  who,  with  eyes  that  literally  flamed  in  his  white 
face,  sprang  straight  at  his  grandfather,  and  closed  with 
him. 

There  was  a  brief — a  very  brief — struggle,  then  a  gasping 
oath  from  Sir  Beverley  as  the  ruler  was  torn  from  his  grasp. 
The  next  moment  he  was  free  and  tottering  blindly.  Piers, 
with  an  awful  smile,  swung  the  weapon  back  as  if  he  would 
strike  him  down  with  it.  Then,  as  Sir  Beverley  clutched 


248  The  Bars  of  Iron 

instinctively  at  the  nearest  chair  for  support,  he  flung 
savagely  round  on  his  heel,  altering  his  purpose.  There 
followed  the  loud  crack  of  rending  wood  as  he  broke  the 
ruler  passionately  across  his  knee,  putting  forth  all  his 
strength,  and  the  clatter  of  the  falling  fragments  as  he 
hurled  them  violently  from  him. 

And  then  in  a  silence  more  dreadful  than  any  speech, 
he  strode  to  the  door  and  went  out,  crashing  it  furiously 
shut  behind  him. 

Sir  Beverley,  grown  piteously  feeble,  sank  down  in  the 
chair,  and  remained  there  huddled  and  gasping  for  many 
dragging  minutes. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  WATCH  IN  THE  NIGHT 

HE  came  at  last  out  of  what  had  almost  been  a  stupor  of 
inertia,  sat  slowly  up,  turned  his  brooding  eyes  upon 
the  door  through  which  Piers  had  passed.  A  tremor  of 
anger  crossed  his  face,  and  was  gone.  A  grim  smile  took 
its  place.  He  still  panted  spasmodically;  but  he  found  his 
voice. 

"Egad!"  he  said.  "The  fellow's  as  strong  as  a  young 
bear.  He's  hugged — all  the  wind — out  of  my  vitals." 

He  struggled  to  his  feet,  straightening  his  knees  with 
difficulty,  one  hand  pressed  hard  to  his  labouring  heart. 

"Egad!"  he  gasped  again.  "He's  getting  out  of  hand — 
the  cub!  But  he'll  come  to  heel, — he'll  come  to  heel!  I 
know  the  rascal!" 

He  stumbled  to  the  bell  and  rang  it. 

David  appeared  with  a  promptitude  that  seemed  to 
indicate  a  certain  uneasiness. 

' '  Coffee ! ' '  growled  his  master.     ' '  And  liqueur ! ' ' 

David  departed  at  as  high  a  rate  of  speed  as  decorum 
would  permit. 

During  his  absence  Sir  Beverley  set  himself  rigidly  to 
recover  his  normal  demeanour.  The  encounter  had 
shaken  him,  shaken  him  badly;  but  he  was  not  the  man 
to  yield  to  physical  weakness.  He  fought  it  with  angry 
determination. 

Before  David's  reappearance  he  had  succeeded  in  con- 

249 


250  The  Bars  of  Iron 

trolling  his  gasping  breath,  though  the  hand  with  which  he 
helped  himself  shook  very  perceptibly. 

There  were  two  cups  on  the  tray.     David  lingered. 

"You  can  go,  "  said  Sir  Beverley. 

David  cocked  one  eyebrow  in  deferential  enquiry. 
"Master  Piers  in  the  garden,  sir?"  he  ventured.  "Shall 
I  find  him?" 

"  No !"  snapped  Sir  Beverley. 

"Very  good,  sir."  David  turned  regretfully  to  the  door. 
"Shall  I  keep  the  coffee  hot,  Sir  Beverley?"  he  asked,  as 
he  reached  it,  with  what  was  almost  a  pleading  note  in 
his  voice. 

Sir  Beverley's  frown  became  as  menacing  as  a  thunder 
cloud.  "No!"  he  shouted. 

David  nodded  in  melancholy  submission  and  withdrew. 

Sir  Beverley  sat  down  heavily  in  his  chair  and  slowly 
drank  his  coffee.  Finally  he  put  aside  the  empty  cup  and 
sat  staring  at  the  closed  door,  his  brows  drawn  heavily 
together. 

How  had  the  young  beggar  dared  to  defy  him  so?  He 
must  have  been  getting  out  of  hand  for  some  time  by 
imperceptible  degrees.  He  had  always  vowed  to  himself 
that  he  would  not  spoil  the  boy.  Had  that  resolution  of 
his  become  gradually  relaxed?  His  frown  grew  heavier. 
He  had  never  before  contemplated  the  possibility  that 
Piers  might  some  day  become  an  individual  force  utterly 
beyond  his  control. 

His  eye  fell  upon  a  fragment  of  the  broken  ruler  lying 
under  the  table  and  again  grimly  he  smiled. 

"Confound  the  scamp!  He's  got  some  muscle,"  he 
murmured. 

Again  his  look  went  to  the  door.  Why  didn't  the  young 
fool  come  back  and  apologize?  How  much  longer  did  he 
mean  to  keep  him  waiting? 

The  minutes  dragged  away,  and  the  silence  of  emptiness 


A  Watch  in  the  Night  251 

gathered  and  brooded  in  the  great  room  and  about  the 
master  of  the  house  who  sat  within  it,  with  bent  head, 
waiting. 

It  was  close  upon  ten  o'clock  when  at  length  he  rose  and 
irritably  rang  the  bell. 

"See  if  you  can  find  Master  Piers!"  he  said  to  David. 
"He  can't  be  far  away.  Look  in  the  drawing-room! 
Look  in  the  garden!  Tell  him  I  want  him!" 

David  withdrew  upon  the  errand,  and  again  the  op 
pressive  silence  drew  close.  For  a  long  interval  Sir 
Beverley  sat  quite  motionless,  still  staring  at  the  door 
as  though  lie  expected  Piers  to  enter  at  any  moment. 
But  when  at  length  it  opened,  it  was  only  to  admit  David 
once  more. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I  can't  find  Master  Piers  anywhere 
in  the  house  or  garden,  Sir  Beverley,"  he  said,  looking 
straight  before  him  and  blinking  vacantly  at  the  lamp. 
"I'm  inclined  to  believe,  sir,  that  he  must  have  gone  into 
the  park." 

Sir  Beverley  snarled  inarticulately  and  dismissed  him. 

During  the  hour  that  followed,  he  did  not  move  from  his 
chair,  and  scarcely  changed  his  position.  But  at  last,  as 
the  stable-clock  was  tolling  eleven,  he  rose  stiffly  and 
walked  to  the  window.  It  was  fastened;  he  dragged  at  the 
catch  with  impatient  fingers. 

His  face  was  haggard  and  grey  as  he  finally  thrust  up 
the  sash,  and  leaned  out  with  his  hands  on  the  sill. 

The  night  was  very  still  all  about  him.  It  might  have 
been  a  night  in  June.  Only  very  far  away  a  faint  breeze 
was  stirring,  whispering  furtively  in  the  bare  boughs  of  the 
elm  trees  that  bordered  the  park.  Overhead  the  stars 
shone  dimly  behind  a  floating  veil  of  mist,  and  from  the 
garden  sleeping  at  his  feet  there  arose  a  faint,  fugitive  scent 
of  violets. 

The  old  man's  face  contracted  as  at  some  sudden  sense 


252  The  Bars  of  Iron 

of  pain  as  that  scent  reached  his  nostrils.  His  mouth 
twitched  with  a  curious  tremor,  and  he  covered  it  with  his 
hand  as  though  he  feared  some  silent  watcher  in  that 
sleeping  world  might  see  and  mock  his  weakness.  That 
violet-bed  beneath  the  window  had  been  planted  fifty 
years  before  at  the  whim  of  a  woman. 

"We  must  have  a  great  many  violets,"  she  had  said. 
"They  are  sweeter  than  all  the  roses  in  the  world.  Next 
year  I  must  have  handfuls  and  handfuls  of  sweetness." 

And  the  next  year  the  violets  had  bloomed  in  the  chosen 
corner,  but  her  hands  had  not  gathered  them.  And  they 
had  offered  their  magic  ever  since,  year  after  year — even 
as  they  offered  it  to-night — to  a  heart  that  was  too  old  and 
too  broken  to  care. 

Fifty  years  before,  Sir  Beverley  had  stood  at  that  same 
window  waiting  and  listening  in  the  spring  twilight  for  the 
beloved  footfall  of  the  woman  who  was  never  again  to 
enter  his  house.  They  had  had  a  disagreement,  he  had 
spoken  harshly,  he  had  been  foolishly,  absurdly  jealous; 
for  her  wonderful  beauty,  her  quick,  foreign  charm  drew 
all  the  world.  But,  returning  from  a  long  ride  that  had 
lasted  all  day,  he  had  entered  with  the  desire  to  make 
amends,  to  win  her  sweet  and  gracious  forgiveness.  She 
had  forgiven  him  before.  She  had  laughed  with  a  sweet, 
elusive  mockery  and  passed  the  matter  by  as  of  no  impor 
tance.  It  had  seemed  a  foregone  conclusion  that  she  would 
forgive  him  again,  would  reassure  him,  and  set  his  mind 
at  rest.  But  he  had  come  back  to  an  empty  house— every 
door  gaping  wide  and  the  beloved  presence  gone. 

So  he  had  waited  for  her,  expecting  her  every  moment, 
refusing  to  believe  the  truth  that  nevertheless  had  forced 
itself  upon  him  at  the  last.  So  now  he  waited  for  her 
grandson — the  boy  with  her  beauty,  her  quick  and  generous 
charm,  her  passionate,  emotional  nature — to  come  back  to 
him.  And  yet  again  he  waited  in  vain. 


A  Watch  in  the  Night  253 

Piers  had  gone  forth  in  fierce  anger,  driven  by  that  devil 
that  had  descended  to  him  through  generations  of  stiff- 
necked  ancestors;  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  hot  young 
life  he  had  not  returned  repentant. 

"  I  treated  him  like  a  dog,  egad, "  murmured  Sir  Beverley 
into  the  shielding  hand.  "But  he'll  come  back.  He 
always  comes  back,  the  scamp." 

But  the  minutes  crawled  by,  the  night- wind  rustled  and 
passed;  and  still  Piers  did  not  come. 

It  was  hard  on  midnight  when  Sir  Beverley  suddenly 
raised  both  hands  to  his  mouth  and  sent  a  shrill,  peculiar 
whistle  through  them  across  the  quiet  garden.  It  had  been 
his  special  call  for  Piers  in  his  childhood.  Even  as  he  sent 
it  out  into  the  darkness,  he  seemed  to  see  the  sturdy,  eager 
little  figure  that  had  never  failed  to  answer  that  summons 
with  delight  racing  headlong  towards  him  over  the  dim, 
dewy  lawn. 

But  to-night  it  brought  no  answer  though  he  repeated  it 
again  and  yet  again;  and  as  twelve  o'clock  struck  heavily 
upon  the  stillness  he  turned  from  the  window  and  groaned 
aloud.  The  boy  had  gone,  gone  for  good,  as  he  might  have 
known  he  would  go.  He  had  driven  him  forth  with  blows 
and  bitter  words,  and  it  was  out  of  his  power  to  bring  him 
back  again. 

Slowly  he  crossed  the  room  and  rang  the  bell.  He  was 
very  cold,  and  he  shivered  as  he  moved. 

It  was  Victor  who  answered  the  summons,  Victor  with 
round,  vindictive  eyes  that  openly  accused  him  for  a 
moment,  and  then  softened  inexplicably  and  looked 
elsewhere. 

"You  ask  me  for  Monsieur  Pierre?"  he  said,  spreading 
out  his  hands,  "Mais  - 

"I  didn't  ask  for  anything,"  growled  Sir  Beverley.  "I 
rang  the  bell  to  tell  you  and  all  the  other  fools  to  lock  up 
and  go  to  bed." 


254  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"But — me!"  ejaculated  Victor,  rolling  his  eyes  upwards 
in  astonishment. 

' '  Yes,  you !  Where's  the  sense  of  your  sitting  up  ?  Master 
Piers  knows  how  to  undress  himself  by  this  time,  I  suppose? " 

Sir  Beverley  scowled  at  him  aggressively,  but  Victor 
did  not  even  see  the  scowl.  Like  a  hen  with  one  chick,  and 
that  gone  astray,  he  could  think  of  naught  beside. 

"Mais  Monsieur  Pierre  is  not  here!  Where  then  is 
Monsieur  Pierre?"  he  questioned  in  distress. 

"How  the  devil  should  I  know?"  snarled  Sir  Beverley. 
"Stop  your  chatter  and  be  off  with  you !  Shut  the  window 
first,  and  then  go  and  tell  David  to  lock  up !  I  shan't  want 
anything  more  to-night." 

Victor  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  mute  protest,  and  went 
to  the  window.  Here  he  paused,  looking  forth  with  eyes 
of  eager  searching  till  recalled  to  his  duty  by  a  growl  of 
impatience  from  his  master.  Then  with  a  celerity  remark 
able  in  one  of  his  years  and  rotundity,  he  quickly  popped 
in  his  head  and  closed  the  window. 

"Leave  the  blind!"  ordered  Sir  Beverley.  "And  the 
catch  too!  There!  Now  go!  Allez-vous-en!  Don't  let 
me  see  you  again  to-night!" 

Victor  threw  a  single  shrewd  glance  at  the  drawn  face, 
and  trotted  with  a  woman's  nimbleness  to  the  door.  Here 
he  paused,  executed  a  stiff  bow;  then  wheeled  and  departed. 
The  door  closed  noiselessly  behind  him,  and  again  Sir 
Beverley  was  left  alone. 

He  dragged  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  sat  down  to 
watch. 

Doubtless  the  boy  would  return  when  he  had  walked 
off  his  indignation.  He  would  be  sure  to  see  the  light  in 
the  study,  and  he  would  come  to  him  for  admittance.  He 
himself  would  receive  him  with  a  gruff  word  or  two  of 
admonition  and  the  whole  affair  should  be  dismissed. 
Grimly  he  pictured  the  scene  to  himself  as,  ignoring  the 


A  Watch  in  the  Night  255 

anxiety  that  was  growing  within  him,  he  settled  himself 
to  his  lonely  vigil. 

Slowly  the  night  dragged  on.  A  couple  of  owls  were 
hooting  to  one  another  across  the  garden,  and  far  away 
a  dog  barked  at  intervals.  Old  Sir  Beverley  never  stirred 
in  his  chair.  His  limbs  were  rigid,  his  eyes  fixed  and 
watchful.  But  his  face  was  grey — grey  and  stricken  and 
incredibly  old.  He  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  carried 
a  burden  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

One  after  another  he  heard  the  hours  strike,  but  his 
position  never  altered,  his  eyes  never  varied,  his  face 
remained  as  though  carved  in  granite — a  graven  image  of 
despair.  Unspeakable  weariness  was  in  his  pose,  and  yet 
he  did  not  relax  or  yield  a  hair's  breadth  to  the  body's 
importunity.  He  suffered  too  bitterly  in  the  spirit  that 
night  to  be  aware  of  physical  necessity. 

Slowly  the  long  hours  passed.  The  night  began  to 
wane.  A  faint  grey  glimmer,  scarcely  perceptible,  came 
down  from  a  mist-veiled  sky.  The  wind  that  had  sunk  to 
stillness  came  softly  back  and  wandered  to  and  fro  as 
though  to  rouse  the  sleeping  world.  Behind  the  mist  the 
stars  went  out,  and  from  the  rookery  in  the  park  a  hoarse 
voice  suddenly  proclaimed  the  coming  day. 

The  grey  light  grew.  In  the  garden  ghostly  shapes 
arose,  phantoms  of  the  dawn  that  gradually  resolved  into 
familiar  forms  of  tree  and  shrub.  From  the  rookery  there 
swelled  a  din  of  many  raucous  voices.  The  dog  in  the 
distance  began  to  bark  again  with  feverish  zest,  and  from 
the  stables  came  Caesar's  cheery  answering  yell. 

The  mist  drifted  away  from  the  face  of  the  sky.  A 
brightness  was  growing  there.  Stiffly,  painfully,  Sir 
Beverley  struggled  up  from  his  chair,  stood  steadying  him 
self — a  figure  tragic  and  forlorn — with  his  hands  against 
the  wood  of  the  window-frame,  then  with  a  groaning  effort 
thrust  up  the  sash. 


256  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Violets!  Violets!'  The  haunting  scent  of  them  rose  to 
greet  him.  The  air  was  full  of  their  magic  fragrance. 
For  a  second  he  was  aware  of  it;  he  almost  winced.  And 
then  in  a  moment  he  had  forgotten.  He  stood  there 
motionless — a  desolate  old  man,  bowed  and  shrunken  and 
grey — staring  blindly  out  before  him,  unconscious  of  all 
things  save  the  despair  that  had  settled  in  his  heart. 

The  night  had  passed  and  his  boy  had  not  returned. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE     CONFLICT 

QTANBURY  CLIFFS  was  no  more  than  a  little  fishing- 
O  town  at  the  foot  of  the  sandy  cliff — a  sheltered  nest 
of  a  place  in  which  the  sound  of  the  waves  was  heard  all 
day  long,  but  which  no  bitter  wind  could  reach.  The 
peace  of  it  was  balm  to  Avery's  spirit.  She  revelled  in  its 
quiet. 

Jeanie  loved  it  too.  She  delighted  in  the  freedom  and 
the  warmth,  and  almost  from  the  day  of  their  arrival  her 
health  began  to  improve. 

They  had  their  quarters  in  what  was  little -more  than 
a  two-storey  cottage  belonging  to  one  of  the  fishermen, 
and  there  was  only  a  tiny  garden  bright  with  marigolds 
between  them  and  the  shore.  Day  after  day  they  went 
through  the  little  wicket  gate  down  a  slope  of  loose  sand 
to  the  golden  beach  where  they  spent  the  sunny  hours  in 
perfect  happiness.  The  waves  that  came  into  the  bay  were 
never  very  rough,  though  they  sometimes  heard  them 
raging  outside  with  a  fury  that  filled  the  whole  world  with 
its  roaring.  Jeanie  called  it  "the  desired  haven,"  and 
confided  to  Avery  that  she  was  happier  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life  before. 

Avery  was  happy  too,  but  with  a  difference ;  for  she  knew 

in  her  secret  heart  that  the  days  of  her  tranquillity  were 

numbered.     She  knew  with  a  woman's  sure  instinct  that 

the  interval  of  peace  would  be  but  brief,  that  with  or  with- 

17  257 


258  The  Bars  of  Iron 

out  her  will  she  must  soon  be  drawn  back  again  into  the 
storm  and  stress  of  life.  And  knowing  it,  she  waited, 
strengthening  her  defences  day  by  day,  counting  each  day 
as  a  respite  while  she  devoted  herself  to  the  child  and 
rejoiced  to  see  the  change  so  quickly  wrought  in  her. 
Tudor's  simile  of  the  building  of  a  sea-wall  often  recurred 
to  her.  She  told  herself  that  the  foundation  thereof  should 
be  as  secure  as  human  care  could  make  it,  so  that  when  the 
tide  came  back  it  should  stand  the  strain. 

The  Vicar  would  have  been  shocked  beyond  words  by  the 
life  of  complete  indulgence  led  by  his  small  daughter. 
She  breakfasted  in  bed  every  day,  served  by  Avery  who 
was  firm  as  to  the  amount  of  nourishment  taken  but  comfort 
ably  lax  on  all  other  points.  When  the  meal  was  over, 
Avery  generally  went  marketing  while  Jeanie  dressed,  and 
they  then  went  to  the  shore.  If  there  were  no  marketing 
to  be  done,  Avery  would  go  down  to  the  beach  alone  and 
wait  for  her  there.  There  was  a  sheltered  corner  that 
they  both  loved  where,  protected  by  towering  rocks,  they 
spent  many  a  happy  hour.  It  was  just  out  of  reach  of  the 
sea,  exposed  to  the  sun  and  sheltered  from  the  wind — an 
ideal  spot ;  and  here  they  brought  letters,  books,  or  needle 
work,  and  were  busy  or  idle  according  to  their  moods. 

Jeanie  was  often  idle.  She  used  to  lie  in  the  soft  sand 
find  dream,  with  her  eyes  on  the  far  horizon;  but  of  what  she 
dreamed  she  said  no  word  even  to  Avery.  But  she  was 
always  happy.  Her  smile  was  always  ready,  the  lines  of 
her  mouth  were  always  set  in  perfect  content.  She  seemed 
to  have  all  she  desired  at  all  times.  They  did  not  often 
stray  from  the  shore,  for  she  was  easily  tired ;  but  they  used 
to  roam  along  it  and  search  the  crevices  of  the  scattered 
rocks  which  held  all  manner  of  treasures.  They  spent  the 
time  in  complete  accord.  It  was  too  good  to  last,  Avery 
told  herself.  The  way  had  become  too  easy. 

It  was  on  a  morning  about  a  week  after  their  arrival  that 


The  Conflict  259 

she  went  down  at  an  early  hour  to  their  favourite  haunt. 
There  had  been  rain  in  the  night,  and  a  brisk  west  wind  was 
blowing ;  but  she  knew  that  in  that  sheltered  spot  they  would 
be  protected,  and  Jeanie  was  pledged  to  join  her  there  as 
soon  as  she  was  ready.  The  tide  was  coming  in,  and  the 
sun  shone  amidst  scudding  white  clouds.  It  was  a  morning 
on  which  to  be  happy  for  no  other  reason  than  lightness 
of  heart;  and  Avery,  with  her  work-bag  on  her  arm,  sang 
softly  to  herself  as  she  went. 

As  usual  she  met  no  one.  It  was  a  secluded  part  of 
the  shore.  The  little  town  was  out  of  sight  on  the  other 
side  of  a  rocky  promontory,  and  the  place  was  lonely  to 
desolation. 

But  Avery  did  not  feel  the  loneliness.  She  had  had  a 
letter  only  that  morning  from  Crowther,  the  friend  of  those 
far-off  Australian  days,  and  he  expressed  a  hope  of  being 
able  to  pay  her  a  flying  visit  at  Stanbury  Cliffs  before 
settling  down  to  work  in  grim  earnest  for  the  accomplish 
ment  of  his  life's  desire.  She  would  have  welcomed 
Edmund  Crowther  at  any  time.  He  was  the  sort  of  friend 
whose  coming  could  never  bring  anything  but  delight. 

She  wondered  as  she  walked  along  which  day  he  would 
choose.  She  was  rather  glad  that  he  had  not  fixed  a 
definite  date.  It  was  good  to  feel  that  any  day  might 
bring  him. 

Nearing  her  destination  she  became  aware  of  light  feet 
running  on  the  firm  sand  behind  her.  She  glanced  over 
her  shoulder,  but  the  sun  shone  full  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
only  managed  to  discern  vaguely  a  man's  figure  drawing 
near.  He  could  not  be  pursuing  her,  she  decided,  and 
resumed  her  walk  and  her  thoughts  of  Crowther — the 
friend  who  had  stood  by  her  at  a  time  when  she  had  been 
practically  friendless. 

But  the  running  feet  came  nearer  and  nearer.  She 
suddenly  realized  that  they  meant  to  overtake  her,  and 


260  The  Bars  of  Iron 

with  the  knowledge  the  old  quick  dread  pierced  her  heart. 
She  wheeled  abruptly  round  and  stood  still. 

He  was  there,  not  a  dozen  yards  from  her.  He  hailed 
her  as  she  turned. 

She  clenched  her  hands  with  sudden  determination  and 
went  to  meet  him. 

"Piers!"  she  said,  and  in  her  voice  reproach  and  severity 
were  oddly  mingled. 

But  Piers  was  unabashed.  He  ran  swiftly  up  to  her, 
and  caught  her  hands  into  his  with  an  impetuous  rush  of 
words.  "Here  you  are  at  last!  I've  been  waiting  for  you 
for  hours.  But  I  was  in  the  water  when  you  first  appeared, 
and  I  hadn't  any  towels,  or  I  should  have  caught  you  up 
before." 

He  was  laughing  as  he  spoke,  but  it  seemed  to  A  very 
that  there  was  something  not  quite  normal  about  him. 
His  black  hair  lay  in  a  wet  plaster  on  his  forehead,  and 
below  it  his  eyes  glittered  oddly,  as  if  he  were  putting  some 
force  upon  himself. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  get  here?"  she  said. 

He  laughed  again  between  his  teeth.  "I  tell  you,  I've 
"been  here  for  hours.  I  came  last  night.  But  I  couldn't 
knock  you  up  at  two  in  the  morning.  So  I  had  to  wait. 
How  are  you  and  Jeanie  getting  on?" 

Avery  gravely  withdrew  her  hands,  and  turned  to  pursue 
her  way  towards  her  rocky  resting-place.  "Jeanie  is 
better,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  did  not  encourage  any 
further  solicitude  on  either  Jeanie's  behalf  or  her  own. 

Piers  marched  beside  her,  a  certain  doggedness  in  his 
gait.  The  laughter  had  died  out  of  his  face.  He  looked 
pale  and  stern,  and  fully  as  determined,  as  she. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us  to  expect  you?"  Avery  asked 
at  last. 

"Were  you  not  expecting  me?"  he  returned,  and  hi? 
voice  had  the  sharpness  of  a  challenge. 


The  Conflict  261 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment  or  two,  meeting 
eyes  that  flung  back  her  scrutiny  with  grim  defiance. 

"Of  course  I  was  not  expecting  you, "  she  said. 

"And  yet  you  were  not — altogether — surprised  to  see 
me, "  he  rejoined,  a  faint  jeering  echo  in  his  voice. 

Avery  walked  on  till  she  reached  her  sheltered  corner. 
Then  she  laid  her  work-bag  down  in  the  accustomed  place, 
and  very  resolutely  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Tell  me  why  you  have  come!"  she  said. 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  fiercely  from  under  his 
black  brows;  then  suddenly  and  disconcertingly  he  seized 
her  by  the  wrists. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  with  feverish 
utterance.  "I've  come  because — before  Heaven — I  can't 
keep  away.  Avery,  listen  to  me!  Yes,  you  must  listen. 
I've  come  because  I  must,  because  you  are  all  the  world 
to  me  and  I  want  you  unutterably.  I  don't  believe — I  can't 
believe — that  I  am  nothing  to  you.  You  can't  with  honesty 
tell  me  so.  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul,  with  all  there  is 
of  me,  good  and  bad.  Avery — Avery,  say  you  love  me  too !" 

Just  for  an  instant  the  arrogance  went  out  of  his  voice, 
and  it  sank  to  pleading.  But  Avery  stood  mute  before 
him,  very  pale,  desperately  calm.  She  made  not  the  faintest 
attempt  to  free  herself,  but  her  hands  were  hard  clenched. 
There  was  nothing  passive  in  her  attitude. 

He  was  aware  of  strong  resistance,  but  it  only  goaded 
him  to  further  effort.  He  lifted  the  clenched  hands  and 
held  them  tight  against  his  heart. 

"You  needn't  try  to  cast  me  off, "  he  said,  "for  I  simply 
won't  go.  I  know  you  care.  You  wouldn't  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  write  that  letter  if  you  didn't.  And  so  listen! 
I've  come  now  to  marry  you.  We  can  go  up  to  town  to-day, 
— Jeanie  too,  if  you  like.  And  to-morrow — to-morrow  we 
will  be  married  by  special  licence.  I've  thought  it  all  out. 
You  can't  refuse.  I  have  money  of  my  own — plenty  of 


262  The  Bars  of  Iron 

money.  And  you  belong  to  me  already.  It's  no  good 
trying  to  deny  it  any  more.  You  are  my  mate — my  mate ; 
and  I  won't  try  to  live  without  you  any  longer!" 

Wildly  the  words  rushed  out,  spending  themselves  as 
it  were  upon  utter  silence.  Avery's  hands  were  no  longer 
clenched.  They  lay  open  against  his  breast,  and  the  mad 
beating  of  his  heart  thrilled  through  and  through  her  as 
she  stood. 

He  bent  towards  her  eagerly,  passionately.  His  hands 
reached  out  to  clasp  her ;  yet  he  paused.  "Avery!  Avery!" 
he  whispered  very  urgently. 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  grey  and  steady  and  fearless. 
Not  by  the  smallest  gesture  did  she  seek  to  escape  him. 
She  suffered  the  hands  upon  her  shoulders.  She  suffered 
the  fiery  passion  of  his  gaze. 

Only  at  last  very  clearly,  very  resolutely,  she  spoke. 
"Piers — no!" 

His  face  was  close  to  hers,  glowing  and  vital  and  tensely 
determined.  "I  say  'Yes,'"  he  said,  with  brief  decision. 

Avery  was  silent.  His  hands  were  drawing  her,  and 
still  she  did  not  resist;  but  in  those  moments  of  silent 
inactivity  she  was  stronger  than  he.  Her  personality 
was  at  grips  with  his,  and  if  she  gained  no  ground  at  least 
she  held  her  own. 

"Avery!"  he  said  suddenly  and  sharply.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you?  Why  don't  you  speak?" 

"I  am  waiting,"  she  said. 

"Waiting!"  he  echoed.     "Waiting  for  what?" 

"Waiting  for  you  to  come  to  yourself,  Piers,"  she  made 
steadfast  answer. 

He  laughed  at  that,  a  quick,  insolent  laugh.  "Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing,  then?" 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  she  answered,  "that  when  you  know, 
you  will  be  more  ashamed  than  any  honourable  man  should 
ever  have  reason  to  be." 


The  Conflict  263 

He  winced  at  the  words.  She  saw  the  hot  blood  surge  in 
a  great  wave  to  his  forehead,  and  she  quailed  inwardly 
though  outwardly  she  made  no  sign.  His  grip  was  growing 
every  instant  more  compelling.  She  knew  that  he  was 
bracing  himself  for  one  great  effort  that  should  batter 
down  the  strength  that  withstood  him.  His  lips  were  so 
close  to  hers  that  she  could  feel  his  breath,  quick  and  hot, 
upon  her  face.  And  still  she  made  no  struggle  for  freedom, 
knowing  instinctively  that  the  instant  her  self-control 
yielded,  the  battle  was  lost. 

Slowly  the  burning  flush  died  away  under  her  eyes.  His 
face  changed,  grew  subtly  harder,  less  passionate.  "So," 
he  said,  with  an  odd  quietness,  "I'm  not  to  kiss  you.  It 
would  be  dishonourable,  what?" 

She  made  unflinching  reply.  "It  would  be  despicable 
and  you  know  it — to  kiss  any  woman  against  her  will." 

"Would  it  be  against  your  will?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  it  would."  Firmly  she  answered  him,  yet  a  quiver 
of  agitation  went  through  her.  She  felt  her  resolution 
begin  to  waver. 

But  in  that  moment  something  in  Piers  seemed  to  give 
way  also.  He  cried  out  to  her  as  if  in  sudden,  intolerable 
pain.  "Avery!  Avery!  Are  you  made  of  stone?  Can't 
you  see  that  this  is  life  or  death  to  me?" 

She  answered  him  instantly;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  had 
been  waiting  for  that  cry  of  his.  "Yes,  but  you  must 
get  the  better  of  it.  You  can  if  you  will.  It  is  unworthy 
of  you.  You  are  trying  to  take  what  is  not  yours.  You 
have  made  a  mistake,  and  you  are  wronging  yourself  and 
me." 

"What?"  he  exclaimed.     "You  don't  love  me  then!" 

He  flung  his  arms  wide  upon  the  words,  with  a  gesture 
of  the  most  utter  despair,  and  turned  from  her.  A  moment 
he  stood  swaying,  as  if  bereft  of  all  his  strength;  and  then 
with  abrupt  effort  he  began  to  move  away.  He  stumbled 


264  The  Bars  of  Iron 

blindly,  heavily,  as  he  went,  and  the  crying  of  the  wheeling 
sea-gulls  came  plaintively  through  a  silence  that  could  be 
felt. 

But  ere  that  silence  paralysed  her,  Avery  spoke,  raising 
her  voice,  for  the  urgency  was  great. 

"  Piers,  stop !" 

He  stopped  instantly,  but  he  did  not  turn,  merely  stood 
tensely  waiting. 

She  collected  herself  and  went  after  him.  She  laid  a 
hand  that  trembled  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  leave  me  like  this!"  she  said. 

Slowly  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  and  the 
misery  of  that  look  went  straight  to  her  heart.  All  the 
woman's  compassion  in  her  throbbed  up  to  the  surface. 
She  found  herself  speaking  with  a  tenderness  which  a 
moment  before  no  power  on  earth  would  have  drawn  from 
her. 

"Piers,  something  is  wrong;  something  has  happened. 
Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"I  can't,"  he  said. 

His  lower  lip  quivered  unexpectedly  and  she  saw  his 
teeth  bite  savagely  upon  it.  "  I'd  better  go, "  he  said. 

But  her  hand  still  held  his  arm.  "No;  wait!"  she  said. 
"You  can't  go  like  this.  Piers,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  Tell  me!" 

He  hesitated.  She  saw  that  his  self-control  was  tottering. 
Abruptly  at  length  he  spoke.  "I  can't.  I'm  not  master 
of  myself.  I — I — "  He  broke  off  short  and  became 
silent. 

"I  knew  you  weren't,"  she  said,  and  then,  acting  upon 
an  impulse  which  she  knew  instinctively  that  she  would 
never  regret,  she  gave  him  her  other  hand  also.  "Let 
us  forget  all  this!"  she  said. 

It  was  generously  spoken,  so  generously  that  it  could 
not  fail  to  take  effect.  He  looked  at  her  in  momentarv 


The  Conflict  265 

surprise,  began  to  speak,  stopped,  and  with  a  choked, 
unintelligible  utterance  took  her  two  hands  with  the  utmost 
reverence  into  his  own,  and  bowed  his  forehead  upon  them. 
The  utter  abandonment  of  the  action  revealed  to  her  in 
that  moment  how  completely  he  had  made  her  the  domi 
nating  influence  of  his  life. 

"Shall  we  sit  down  and  talk?"  she  said  gently. 

She  could  not  be  other  than  gentle  with  him.  The  appeal 
of  his  weakness  was  greater  than  any  display  of  strength. 
She  could  not  but  respond  to  it. 

He  set  her  free  and  dropped  down  heavily  upon  a  rock, 
leaning  his  head  in  his  hands. 

She  waited  a  few  moments  beside  him;  then,  as  he  re 
mained  silent,  she  bent  towards  him. 

"Piers,  what  is  it?" 

With  a  sharp  movement  he  straightened  himself,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  sea. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  odd,  unsteady 
vehemence.  "Fact  is,  I've  been  out  all  night  on  this 
beastly  shore.  I've  walked  miles.  And  I  suppose  I'm 
tired." 

He  made  the  confession  with  a  shamefaced  laugh,  still 
looking  away  to  the  horizon. 

"All  night!"  Avery  repeated  in  astonishment.  "But, 
Piers!" 

He  nodded  several  times,  emphatically.  "And  those 
infernal  sea-birds  have  been  squawking  along  with  those 
thrice-accursed  crows  ever  since  day-break.  I'd  like  to 
wring  their  ugly  necks,  every  jack  one  of  'em!" 

Avery  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  ' '  We  all  feel  peevish 
sometimes,"  she  said,  as  one  of  the  offenders  sailed  over 
head  with  a  melancholy  cry.  "But  haven't  you  had  any 
breakfast?  You  must  be  starving." 

"  I  am! "  said  Piers.  " I  feel  like  a  wolf.  But  you  needn't 
be  afraid  to  sit  down.  I  shan't  gobble  you  up  this  time." 


266  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  heard  the  boyish  appeal  in  his  voice  and  almost 
unconsciously  she  yielded  to  it.  She  sat  down  on  the 
rock  beside  him,  but  he  instantly  slipped  from  it  and 
stretched  himself  in  a  dog-like  attitude  at  her  feet. 

His  chin  was  propped  in  his  hands,  his  face  turned  to  the 
white  sand  on  which  he  lay.  She  looked  down  at  his 
black  head  with  more  than  compassion  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
horribly  difficult  to  snub  this  boy-lover  of  hers. 

She  sat  and  waited  silently  for  him  to  speak. 

He  dropped  one  hand  at  length  and  began  to  dig  his 
brown  fingers  into  the  powdery  sand  with  irritable  energy; 
but  a  minute  or  more  passed  before  very  grumpily  he 
spoke. 

"I've  had  a  row  with  my  grandfather.  We  both  of  us 
behaved  like  wild  beasts.  In  the  end,  he  thought  he  was 
going  to  give  me  a  caning,  and  that  was  more  than  I  could 
stand.  I  smashed  his  ruler  for  him  and  bolted.  I  should 
have  struck  him  with  it  if  I  hadn't.  And  after  that,  I 
cleared  out  and  came  here.  And  I'm  not  going  back." 

So  with  blunt  defiance  he  made  the  announcement,  and 
as  he  did  so,  it  came  to  Avery  suddenly  and  quite  con 
vincingly  that  she  had  been  the  cause  of  the  quarrel.  A 
shock  of  dismay  went  through  her.  She  had  not  antici 
pated  this.  She  felt  that  the  suspicion  must  be  verified 
or  refuted  at  once. 

"Piers,"  she  said  quickly,  "why  did  you  quarrel  with 
your  grandfather?  Was  it  because  of  your  affair  with 
Miss  Rose?" 

"I  never  had  an  affair  with  Miss  Rose,"  said  Piers 
rather  sullenly.  He  dug  up  a  small  stone,  and  flung  it  with 
vindictive  force  at  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Ask  her,  if  you 
don't  believe  me!" 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on  in  a  dogged  note: 
"I  told  him — of  a  certain  intention  of  mine.  He  tackled 
me  about  it  first,  was  absolutely  intolerable.  I  just  couldn't 


The  Conflict  267 

hold  myself  in.  And  then  somehow  we  got  violent.  It 
was  his  fault.  Anyway,  he  began  it." 

"You  haven't  told  me — yet — what  you  quarrelled 
about,"  said  Avery,  with  a  sinking  heart. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  looking  at  her. 
"It  doesn't  matter,  does  it?" 

She  made  answer  with  a  certain  firmness.  "Yes,  I 
think  it  does." 

"Well,  then," — abruptly  he  raised  himself  and  faced 
round,  his  dark  eyes  raised  to  hers, — "I  told  him,  Avery, 
that  if  I  couldn't  marry  the  woman  I  loved,  I  would  never 
marry  at  all." 

There  was  no  sullenness  about  him  now,  only  steadfast 
purpose.  He  looked  her  full  in  the  face  as  he  said  it,  and 
she  quivered  a  little  before  the  mastery  of  his  look. 

He  laid  a  hand  upon  her  knee  as  she  sat  above  him  in 
sore  perplexity.  "Would  you  have  me  do  anything  else?" 
he  said. 

She  answered  him  with  a  conscious  effort.  "I  want  you 
to  love — and  marry — the  right  woman." 

He  uttered  a  queer,  unsteady  laugh  and  leaned  his  head 
against  her.  "Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  other 
woman  but  you  in  all  the  world." 

Something  fiery  that  was  almost  like  a  dart  of  pain  went 
through  Avery  at  his  words.  She  moved  instinctively, 
but  it  was  not  in  shrinking.  After  a  moment  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  his. 

"Piers,"  she  said,  "I  can't  bear  hurting  you." 

"You  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,"  said  Piers. 

She  smiled  faintly.  "Not  if  I  could  help  it.  But  that 
doesn't  prove  that  I  am  fond  of  flies.  And  now,  Piers,  I  am 
going  to  ask  a  very  big  thing  of  you.  I  wonder  if  you  will 
do  it." 

"I  wonder,  "  said  Piers. 

He  had  not  moved  at  her  touch,  yet  she  felt  his  finger? 


268  The  Bars  of  Iron 

close  tensely  as  they  lay  upon  her  knee,  and  she  guessed 
that  he  was  still  striving  to  control  the  inner  tumult  that 
had  so  nearly  overwhelmed  him  a  few  minutes  before. 

"I  know  it  is  a  big  thing,"  she  said.  "Yet — for  my 
sake  if  you  like — I  want  you  to  do  it." 

"I  will  do  anything  for  your  sake,"  he  made  passionate 
answer. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  gently.  "Then,  Piers,  I  want 
you — please — to  go  back  to  Sir  Beverley  at  once,  and  make 
it  up." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  sharply  from  hers,  and  sat  up, 
turning  his  back  upon  her.  "No!"  he  said  harshly. 
"No!" 

"Please,  Piers!"  she  said  very  earnestly. 

He  locked  his  arms  round  his  knees  and  sat  in  silence, 
staring  moodily  out  to  sea. 

"Please,  Piers!"  she  said  again,  and  lightly  touched  his 
shoulder  with  her  fingers. 

He  hunched  the  shoulder  away  from  her  with  a  gesture 
of  boyish  impatience,  and  then  abruptly,  as  if  realizing 
what  he  had  done,  he  turned  back  to  her,  caught  the  hand, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"I'm  a  brute,  dear.     Forgive  me!     Of  course — if  you 
wish  it — I'll  go  back.     But  as  to  making  it  up,  well — 
he  gulped  once  or  twice — "it  doesn't  rest  only  with  me,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  Piers, "  she  said,  "you  are  all  he  has.  He  couldn't 
be  hard  to  you!" 

Piers  smiled  a  wry  smile,  and  said  nothing. 

"Besides,"  she  went  on  gently,  "there  is  really  nothing 
for  you  to  quarrel  about, — that  is,  if  I  am  the  cause  of  the 
trouble.  It  is  perfectly  natural  that  your  grandfather 
should  wish  you  to  make  a  suitable  marriage,  perfectly 
natural  that  he  should  not  want  you  to  run  after  the  wrong 
woman.  You  can  tell  him,  Piers,  that  I  absolutely  see  his 


The  Conflict  269 

point  of  view,  but  that  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  he  need 
not  be  anxious.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  marry  again." 

"All  right,"  said  Piers. 

He  gave  her  hand  a  little  shake  and  released  it.  For  a 
second — only  a  second — she  caught  a  spark'e  in  his  eyes 
that  seemed  to  her  almost  like  a  gleam  of  mockery.  And 
then  with  characteristic  suddenness  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Well,  I'd  better  be  going,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
perfect'y  normal  and  free  from  agitation,  "  I  can't  stop  to  see 
the  kiddie  this  time.  I'm  glad  she's  going  on  all  right. 
I  wonder  when  you'll  be  back  again." 

"Not  at  present,  I  think,"  said  Avery,  trying  not  to  be 
disconcerted  by  his  abruptness. 

He  looked  down  at  her  whimsically.  "You're  a  good 
sort,  Avery,"  he  said.  "I  won't  be  so  violent  next  time." 

"There  mustn't  be  a  next  time,"  she  said  quickly. 
"Please  Piers,  that  must  be  quite  understood!" 

"All  right,"  he  said  again.     "I  understand." 

And  with  that  very  suddenly  he  left  her,  so  suddenly 
that  she  sat  motionless  on  her  rock  and  stared  after  him, 
not  believing  that  he  was  really  taking  his  leave. 

He  did  not  turn  his  head,  however,  and  very  soon  he 
passed  round  the  jutting  headland,  and  was  gone  from  her 
sight.  Only  when  that  happened  did  she  draw  a  long, 
long  breath  and  realize  how  much  of  her  strength  had  been 
spent  to  gain  what  after  all  appeared  to  be  but  a  very  barren 
victory. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    RETURN 

"  All!  Cest  Monsieur  Pierre  enfin!"  Eagerly  Victor 
41  greeted  the  appearance  of  his  young  master.  He 
looked  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  embrace  him. 

Piers'  attitude,  however,  did  not  encourage  any  display 
of  tenderness.  He  flung  himself  gloomily  down  into  a 
chair  and  regarded  the  man  with  sombre  eyes. 

"Where's  Sir  Beverley?"  he  said. 

Victor  spread  forth  expressive  hands.  "Mais,  Sir 
Beverley,  he  sit  up  all  the  night  attending  you,  mon  petit 
monsieur.  Et  moi,  I  sit  up  also.  Mais  Monsieur  Pierre! 
Monsieur  Pierre!  " 

He  began  to  shake  his  head  at  Piers  in  fond  reproof, 
but  Piers  paid  no  attention. 

"Sat  up  all  night,  what?"  he  said.  "Then  where  is  he 
now?  In  bed?" 

There  was  a  deep  line  between  his  black  brows;  all  the 
gaiety  and  sparkle  had  gone  from  his  eyes.  He  looked 
tired  out. 

It  was  close  upon  the  luncheon-hour,  and  he  had  tramped 
up  from  the  station.  There  were  refreshments  in  front 
of  him,  but  he  bluntly  refused  to  touch  them. 

"Why  can't  you  speak,  man?"  he  said  irritably.  "Tell 
me  where  he  is!" 

"He  has  gone  for  his  ride  as  usual, "  V  ctor  said,  speaking 
through  pursed  lips.  "But  he  is  very,  very  feeble  to-day, 

270 


The  Return  271 

Monsieur  Pierre.  We  beg  him  not  to  go.  But  what  would 
you?  He  is  the  master.  We  could  hot  stop  him.  But 
he  sit  in  his  saddle — like  this." 

Victor's  gesture  descriptive  of  the  bent,  stricken  figure 
that  had  ridden  forth  that  morning  was  painfully  true  to  life. 

Piers  sprang  to  his  feet.  "And  he  isn't  back  yet  ?  Where 
on  earth  can  he  be?  Which  way  did  he  go?" 

Victor  raised  his  shoulders.  "He  go  down  the  drive — 
as  always.  Apres  cela,  je  ne  sais  pas.11 

"Confusion!"  ejaculated  Piers,  and  was  gone. 

He  had  returned  by  a  short  cut  across  the  park,  but  now 
he  tore  down  the  long  avenue,  running  like  a  trained  athlete, 
head  up  and  elbows  in,  possessed  by  the  single  purpose  of 
reaching  the  lodge  in  as  brief  a  time  as  possible.  They 
would  know  at  the  lodge  which  way  his  grandfather  had 
gone. 

He  found  Marshall  just  turning  in  at  his  gate  for  the 
midday  meal,  and  hailed  him  without  ceremony. 

The  old  man  stopped  and  surveyed  him  with  sour  dis 
approval.  The  news  of  Piers'  abrupt  disappearance  on 
the  previous  night  had  spread. 

No,  Marshall  could  give  him  no  news  as  to  the  master's 
whereabouts;  he  had  been  out  all  the  morning. 

"Well,  find  Mrs.  Marshall!"  ordered  Piers  impatiently. 
"She'll  know  something.  She  must  have  opened  the 
gate." 

Mrs.  Marshall,  summoned  by  a  surly  yell  from  her 
husband,  stood  in  the  door-way,  thin-lipped  and  austere, 
and  announced  briefly  that  Sir  Beverlcy  had  gone  down 
towards  the  Vicarage;  she  didn't  know  no  more  than  that. 

It  was  enough  for  Piers.  He  was  gone  again  like  a  bird 
on  the  wing.  The  couple  at  the  lodge  looked  after  him 
with  a  species  of  unwilling  admiration.  His  very  arrogance 
fed  their  pride  in  him,  disapprove  though  they  might  of 
his  wild,  foreign  ways.  Whatever  the  mixture  in  his  veins, 


272  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  old  master's  blood  ran  there,  and  they  would  always  be 
loyal  to  that. 

That  run  to  the  Vicarage  taxed  even  Piers'  powers. 
The  steep  hill  at  the  end  made  him  aware  that  his  strength 
had  its  limits,  and  he  was  forced  to  pause  for  breath  when 
he  reached  the  top.  He  leaned  against  the  Vicarage  gate 
post  with  the  memory  of  that  winter  evening  in  his  mind 
when  Avery  had  come  swift-footed  to  the  rescue,  and  had 
cooled  his  fury  with  a  bucket  of  cold  water. 

A  step  in  the  garden  made  him  straighten  himself 
abruptly.  He  turned  to  see  a  tall,  black-coated  figure 
emerge.  The  Reverend  Stephen  Lorimer  came  up  with 
dignity  and  greeted  him. 

"Were  you  about  to  enter  my  humble  abode?"  he 
enquired. 

"Is  my  grandfather  here?"  asked  Piers. 

Mr.  Lorimer  smiled  benignly.  He  liked  to  imagine 
himself  upon  terms  of  intimacy  with  Sir  Beverley  though 
the  latter  did  very  little  to  justify  the  idea. 

"Well,  no,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  him  here  to-day.  Did  he  express  the  intention  of 
paying  me  a  visit?" 

"No,  sir,  no!"  said  Piers  impatiently.  "I  only  thought 
it  possible,  that's  all.  Good-bye!" 

He  swung  round  and  departed,  leaving  the  worthy 
Vicar  looking  after  him  with  a  shrewd  and  not  over-friendly 
smile  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

Beyond  the  Vicarage  the  road  wound  round  again  to  the 
park,  and  Piers  followed  it.  It  led  to  a  gate  that  opened 
upon  a  riding  which  was  a  favourite  stretch  for  a  gallop 
with  both  Sir  Beverley  and  himself.  Through  this  he 
passed,  no  longer  running,  but  striding  over  the  springy 
turf  between  the  budding  beech  saplings  at  a  pace  that 
soon  took  him  into  the  heart  of  the  woodland. 

Pressing  on,  he  came  at  length  to  a  cross-riding,  and 


The  Return  273 

here  on  boggy  ground  he  discovered  recent  hoof-marks. 
There  were  a  good  many  of  them,  and  he  was  puzzled  for 
a  time  as  to  the  direction  they  had  taken.  The  animal 
seemed  to  have  wandered  to  and  fro.  But  he  found  a 
continuous  track  at  length  and  followed  it. 

It  led  to  an  old  summer-house  perched  on  a  slope  that 
overlooked  the  scene  of  Jeanie's  accident  in  the  winter. 
A  cold  wind  drove  down  upon  him  as  he  ascended.  The 
sky  was  grey  with  scurrying  clouds.  The  bare  downs 
looked  indescribably  desolate. 

Piers  hastened  along  with  set  teeth.  The  dread  he  would 
not  acknowledge  hung  like  a  numbing  weight  upon  him. 
Somehow,  inexplicably,  he  knew  that  he  was  nearing  the 
end  of  his  quest. 

The  long  moan  of  the  wind  was  the  only  sound  to  be 
heard.  It  seemed  to  fill  the  world.  No  voice  of  bird  or 
beast  came  from  near  or  far.  He  seemed  to  travel  through  a 
vast  emptiness — the  only  living  thing  astir. 

He  reached  the  thatched  summer-house  at  last,  noted 
with  a  curious  detachment  that  it  was  beginning  to  look 
dilapidated,  wondered  if  he  would  find  it  after  all  deserted, 
and  the  next  moment  was  nearly  overwhelmed  by  a  huge 
grey  body  that  hurled  itself  upon  him  from  the  interior  of 
the  little  arbour. 

It  was  Cassar  the  great  Dalmatian  who  greeted  him  thus 
effusively,  and  Piers  realized  in  an  instant  that  the  dog  had 
some  news  to  impart.  He  pushed  him  aside  with  a  brief 
word  of  welcome  and  entered  the  ivy-grown  place. 

"  Hullo ! "  gasped  a  voice  with  painful  utterance.  "Hullo ! " 

And  in  a  moment  he  discerned  Sir  Beverley  crouched  in 
a  corner,  grey-faced,  his  riding-whip  still  clutched  in  his 
hand. 

Impetuously  he  went  to  him,  stooped  above  him.  "What 
on  earth  has  happened,  sir?  You  haven't  been  thrown?" 
he  queried  anxiously. 

18 


274  '1'he  Bars  of  Iron 

"Thrown!  I!"  Sir  Beverley's  voice  cracked  derisively. 
"No!  I  got  off — to  have  a  look  at  the  place, — and  the 
brute  jibbed — and  gave  me  the  slip." 

The  words  came  with  difficult  jerks,  his  breathing  was 
short  and  laboured.  Piers,  bending  over  him,  saw  a  spasm 
of  pain  contract  the  grey  face  that  nevertheless  looked  so 
indomitably  into  his. 

"He'll  go  back  to  stables,"  growled  Sir  Beverley.  "It's 
a  way  colts  have — when  they've  had  their  fling.  What 
have  you  come  back  for,  eh?  Thought  I  couldn't  do 
without  you?" 

There  was  a  stony  glint  in  his  eyes  as  he  asked  the 
question.  His  thin  lips  curved  sardonically. 

Piers,  still  with  anxiety  lying  cold  at  his  heart,  had  no 
place  left  for  resentment.  He  made  swift  and  winning 
answer.  "I've  been  a  brute,  sir.  I've  come  back  to  ask 
your  forgiveness." 

The  sardonic  lips  parted.  "Instead  of — a  hiding — eh?" 
gasped  Sir  Beverley. 

Piers  drew  back  momentarily;  but  the  grey,  drawn  face 
compelled  his  pity.  He  stifled  his  wrath  unborn.  "I'll 
take  that  first,  sir,"  he  said  steadily. 

Sir  Beverley's  frown  deepened,  but  his  breathing  was 
growing  less  oppressed.  He  suddenly  collected  his  energies 
and  spoke  with  his  usual  irascibility. 

"Oh,  don't  try  any  of  your  damned  heroics  on  me,  sir! 
Apologize  like  a  gentleman — if  you  can !     If  not — if  not — 
He  broke  off  panting,  his  lips  still  forming  words  that  he 
lacked  the  strength  to  utter. 

Piers  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  crazy  bench.  "I  will 
do  anything  you  wish,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'm  horribly  sorry 
for  the  way  I've  treated  you.  I'm  ready  to  make  any 
amends  in  my  power." 

"Oh,  get  away!"  growled  out  Sir  Beverley.  But  with 
the  words  his  hand  came  gropingly  forth  and  fastened  in  a 


The  Return  275 

hard  grip  on  Piers'  arm.     "You  talk  like  a  Sunday-school 
book, "  he  said.     "What  the  devil  did  you  do  it  for,  eh?" 

It  was  roughly  spoken,  but  Piers  was  quick  to  recognize 
the  spirit  behind'  the  words.  He  clapped  his  own  hand 
upon  his  grandfather's,  and  was  shocked  afresh  at  its  icy 
coldness. 

"  I  say,  do  let's  go ! "  he  said.  "  We  can't  talk  here.  It's 
downright  madness  to  sit  in  this  draughty  hole.  Come 
along,  sir!"  He  thrust  a  vigorous  arm  about  the  old 
man  and  hoisted  him  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  you're  mighty  strong!"  gasped  Sir  Beverley. 
"Strong  enough — to  kick  over — the  traces,  eh?" 

"Never  again,  sir,"  said  Piers  with  decision. 

Whereat  Sir  Beverley  looked  at  him  searchingly,  and 
gibed  no  more. 

They  went  out  together  on  to  the  open  wind-swept  hill 
side,  Piers  still  strongly  supporting  him,  for  he  stumbled 
painfully.  It  was  a  difficult  progress  for  them  both,  and 
haste  was  altogether  out  of  the  question. 

Sir  Beverley  revived  somewhat  as  they  went,  but  more 
than  once  he  had  to  pause  to  get  his  breath.  His  weakness 
was  a  revelation  to  Piers  though  he  sought  to  reassure  him 
self  with  the  reflection  that  it  was  the  natural  outcome  of 
his  night's  vigil;  and  moment  by  moment  his  compunction 
grew. 

They  were  no  more  than  a  mile  from  the  Abbey,  but  it 
took  them  the  greater  part  of  two  hours  to  accomplish 
the  distance,  and  at  the  end  of  it  Sir  Beverley  was  hanging 
upon  Piers  in  a  state  that  bordered  upon  collapse. 

His  animal  had  just  returned  riderless,  and  considerable 
consternation  prevailed.  Victor,  who  was  on  the  watch, 
rushed  to  meet  them  with  characteristic  nimbleness,  and 
he  and  Piers  between  them  carried  Sir  Beverley  in,  and  laid 
him  down  before  the  great  hall  fire. 

But  though  so  exhausted  as  to  be  scarcely  conscious,  he 


276  The  Bars  of  Iron 

still  clung  fast  to  Piers,  not  suffering  him  to  stir  from  his 
side;  and  there  Piers  remained,  chafing  the  cold  hands  and 
administering  brandy,  while  Victor,  invaluable  in  an 
emergency,  procured  pillows,  blankets,  hot-water  bottles, 
everything  that  his  fertile  brain  could  suggest  to  restore  the 
failing  strength. 

Again,  though  slowly,  Sir  Beverley  rallied,  recovered 
his  faculties,  came  back  to  full  understanding.  "Had  any 
thing  to  eat?"  he  rapped  out  so  suddenly  that  Piers, 
kneeling  beside  him,  jumped  with  astonishment. 

"  I,  sir?  No,  I'm  not  hungry, "  he  said.  "You're  feeling 
better,  what?  Can  I  get  you  something?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  damn'  fool!"  said  Sir  Beverley.  "Tell 
'em  to  fetch  some  lunch!" 

It  was  the  turning-point.  From  that  moment  he  began 
to  recover  in  a  fashion  that  amazed  Piers,  cast  aside  blankets 
and  pillows,  sternly  forbade  Piers  to  summon  the  doctor, 
and  sat  up  before  the  fire  with  a  grim  refusal  to  be  coddled 
any  longer. 

They  lunched  together  in  the  warmth  of  the  blazing 
logs,  and  Sir  Beverley  became  so  normal  in  his  attitude 
that  Piers  began  at  last  to  feel  reassured. 

He  did  not  broach  the  matter  that  lay  between  them, 
knowing  well  that  his  grandfather's  temperament  was  not 
such  as  to  leave  it  long  in  abeyance;  and  they  smoked 
together  in  peace  after  the  meal  as  though  the  strife  of 
the  previous  evening  had  never  been. 

But  the  memory  of  it  overhung  them  both,  and  finally 
at  the  end  of  a  lengthy  silence  Sir  Beverley  turned  his 
stone-grey  eyes  upon  his  grandson  and  spoke. 

"Well?     What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

Piers  came  out  of  a  reverie  and  looked  up  with  a  faint 
rueful  smile.  "Nothing,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Nothing?  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  Sir  Beverley 's 
voice  was  sharp.  "You  go  away  like  a  raving  lunatic, 


The  Return  277 

and  stay  away  all  night,  and  then  come  back  with  nothing 
to  say.  What  have  you  been  up  to ?  Tell  me  that!" 

Piers  leaned  slowly  forward,  took  up  the  poker  and 
gently  pusned  it  into  the  fire.  "She  won't  have  me," 
he  said,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  leaping  flames. 

"What?"  exclaimed  Sir  Beverley.  "You've  been  after 
that  hussy  again?" 

Piers'  brows  drew  together  in  a  thick,  ominous  line;  but 
he  merely  nodded  and  said,  "Yes." 

"The  devil  you  have!"  ejaculated  Sir  Beverley.  "And 
she  refused  you  ? ' ' 

"She  did."  Again  very  softly  Piers  poked  at  the  blazing 
logs,  his  eyes  fixed  and  intent.  "It  served  me  right — in  a 
way, "  he  said,  speaking  meditatively,  almost  as  if  to 
himself.  ' '  I  was  a  hound — to  ask  her.  But — somehow — 
I  was  driven.  However,"  he  drove  the  poker  in  a  little 
further,  "it's  all  the  same  now  as  she's  refused  me.  That's 
why,"  he  turned  his  eyes  suddenly  upon  Sir  Beverley, 
"there's  nothing  to  be  said." 

There  was  no  defiance  in  his  look,  but  it  held  something 
of  a  baffling  quality.  It  was  almost  as  if  in  some  fashion 
he  were  conscious  of  relief. 

Sir  Beverley  stared  at  him,  angry  and  incredulous. 
"Refused  you!  What  the  devil  for ?  Wanted  my  consent, 
I  suppose?  Thought  I  held  the  purse-strings,  eh?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Piers,  again  faintly  smiling,  "she  didn't 
care  a  damn  about  that.  She  knows  I  am  not  dependent 
upon  you.  But — she  has  no  use  for  me,  that's  all." 

"No  use  for  you!"  Sir  Beverley's  voice  rose.  "What 
the — what  the  devil  does  she  want  then,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"She  doesn't  want  anyone,"  said  Piers.  "At  least 
she  thinks  she  doesn't.  You  see,  she's  been  married 
before." 

There  was  a  species  of  irony  in  his  voice  that  yet  was 


278  The  Bars  of  Iron 

without  bitterness.  He  turned  back  to  his  aimless  stirring 
of  the  fire,  and  there  fell  a  silence  between  them. 

But  Sir  Beverley 's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  grandson's 
face  in  a  close,  unsparing  scrutiny.  "So  you  thought 
you  might  as  well  come  back, "  he  said  at  last. 

"She  made  me,"  said  Piers,  without  looking  round. 

"Made  you!" 

Again  Piers  nodded.  "I  was  to  tell  you  from  her  that 
she  quite  understands  your  attitude;  but  that  you  needn't 
be  anxious,  as  she  has  no  intention  of  marrying  again." 

"Confound  her  impudence!"  ejaculated  Sir  Beverley. 

"Oh  no!"  Piers'  voice  sounded  too  tired  to  be  indignant. 
"I  don't  think  you  can  accuse  her  of  that.  There  has 
never  been  any  flirtation  between  us.  It  wasn't  her  fault. 
I — made  a  fool  of  myself.  It  just  happened  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things." 

He  ceased  to  speak,  laid  down  the  poker  without  sound, 
and  sat  with  clasped  hands,  staring  blindly  before  him. 

Again  there  fell  a  silence.  The  clock  in  the  corner 
ticked  on  with  melancholy  regularity,  the  logs  hissed  and 
spluttered  viciously ;  but  the  two  men  sat  in  utter  stillness, 
both  bowed  as  if  beneath  a  pressing  burden. 

One  of  them  moved  at  last,  stretched  out  a  bony, 
trembling  hand,  laid  it  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"Piers  boy,"  Sir  Beverley  said,  with  slow  articulation, 
"believe  me,  there's  not  a  woman  on  this  earth  worth 
grizzling  about.  They're  liars  and  impostors,  every  one." 

Piers  started  a  little,  then  with  a  very  boyish  movement, 
he  laid  his  cheek  against  the  old  bent  fingers.  "My  dear 
sir,"  he  said,  "but  you're  a  woman-hater!" 

"I  know,"  said  Sir  Beverley,  still  in  that  heavy,  fateful 
fashion.  "And  I  have  reason.  I  tell  you,  boy, — and  I 
know, — you  would  be  better  off  in  your  coffin  than  linked 
to  a  woman  you  seriously  cared  for.  It's  hell  on  earth — 
hell  on  earth!" 


The  Return  279 

"Or  paradise,"  muttered  Piers. 

"A  fool's  paradise,  boy;  a  paradise  that  turns  to  dust 
and  ashes."  Sir  Beverley's  voice  quivered  suddenly. 
He  withdrew  his  hand  to  fumble  in  an  inner  pocket.  In 
a  moment  he  stretched  it  forth  again  with  a  key  lying  on 
the  palm. 

" Take  that ! "  he  said.  "Open  that  bureau  thing  behind 
you!  Look  in  the  left-hand  drawer!  There's  something 
there  for  you  to  see." 

Piers  obeyed  him.  There  was  that  in  Sir  Beverley's 
manner  that  silenced  all  questioning.  He  pulled  out  the 
drawer  and  looked  in.  It  contained  one  thing  only — a 
revolver. 

Sir  Beverley  went  on  speaking,  calmly,  dispassionately, 
wholly  impersonally.  "It's  loaded — has  been  loaded  for 
fifty  years.  But  I  never  used  it.  And  that  not  because 
my  own  particular  hell  wasn't  hot  enough,  but  just  because 
I  wouldn't  have  it  said  that  I'd  ever  loved  any  she-devil 
enough  to  let  her  be  my  ruin.  There  were  times  enough 
when  I  nearly  did  it.  I've  sat  all  night  with  the  thing  in  my 
hand.  But  I  hung  on  for  that  reason,  till  at  last  the  fire 
burnt  out,  and  I  didn't  care.  Every  woman  is  the  same  to 
me  now.  I  know  now — and  you've  got  to  know  it  too — 
that  woman  is  only  fit  to  be  the  servant,  not  the  mistress, 
of  man, — and  a  damn'  treacherous  servant  at  that.  She 
was  made  for  man's  use,  and  if  he  is  fool  enough  to  let  her 
get  the  upper  hand,  then  Heaven  help  him,  for  he  certainly 
won't  be  in  a  position  to  help  himself!" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  in  the  silence  Piers  shut  and 
relocked  the  drawer.  He  dropped  the  key  into  his  own 
pocket,  and  came  back  to  the  fire. 

Sir  Beverley  looked  up  at  him  with  something  of  an 
effort.  "Boy,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  marry  some  day, 
I  know.  You've  got  to  have  children.  But — you're 
young,  you  know.  There's  plenty  of  time  before  you. 


280  The  Bars  of  Iron 

You  might  wait  a  bit — just  a  bit — till  I'm  out  of  the  way. 
I  won't  keep  you  long;  and  I  won't  beat  you  often  either — • 
if  you'll  condescend  to  stay  with  me." 

He  smiled  with  the  words,  his  own  grim  ironical  smile; 
but  the  pathos  of  it  cut  straight  to  Piers'  heart.  He  went 
down  on  his  knees  beside  the  old  man  and  thrust  his  arm 
about  the  shrunken  shoulders. 

"I'll  never  leave  you  again,  sir,"  he  vowed  earnestly. 
"I've  been  a  heartless  brute,  and  I'm  most  infernally  sorry. 
As  to  marrying,  well — there's  no  more  question  of  that  for 
me.  I  couldn't  marry  Ina  Rose.  You  understand  that?" 

"Never  liked  the  chit,"  growled  Sir  Beverley.  "Only 
thought  she'd  answer  your  purpose  better  than  some.  For 
you've  got  to  get  an  heir,  boy;  remember  that!  You're 
the  only  Evesham  left." 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Piers  very  wearily.  "What  does  it 
matter?" 

Sir  Beverley  looked  at  him  from  under  his  thick  brows 
piercingly  but  without  condemnation.  "It's  up  to  you, 
Piers,"  he  said. 

"  Is  it? "  said  Piers,  with  a  groan.  "Well,  let's  leave  it  at 
that  for  the  present!  Sure  you've  forgiven  me?" 

Sir  Beverley's  grim  face  relaxed  again.  He  put  his  arm 
round  Piers  and  held  him  hard  for  a  moment. 

Then:  "Oh,  drat  it,  Piers!"  he  said  testily.  "Get 
away,  do!  And  behave  yourself  for  the  future!" 

Whereat  Piers  laughed,  a  short,  unsteady  laugh,  and 
went  back  to  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    DECISION 

"  HPHE  matter  is  settled, "  said  the  Reverend  Stephen 
1  Lorimer,  in  the  tones  of  icy  decision  with  which  his 
wife  was  but  too  tragically  familiar.  "I  engaged  Mrs. 
Denys  to  be  a  help  to  you,  not  exclusively  to  Jeanie.  The 
child  is  quite  well  enough  to  return  home,  and  I  do  not  feel 
myself  justified  in  incurring  any  further  expense  now  that 
her  health  is  quite  sufficiently  restored." 

"  But  the  children  were  all  counting  on  going  to  Stanbury 
Cliffs  for  the  Easter  holidays,"  protested  Mrs.  Lorimer 
almost  tearfully.  "We  cannot  disappoint  them,  Stephen!" 
Mr.  Lorimer's  lips  closed  very  firmly  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then,  "The  change  home  will  be  quite  sufficient  for  them," 
he  said.  "I  have  given  the  matter  my  full  consideration, 
my  dear  Adelaide,  and  no  argument  of  yours  will  now 
move  me.  Mrs.  Denys  and  Jeanie  have  been  away  for  a 
month,  and  they  must  now  return.  It  is  your  turn  for  a 
change,  and  as  soon  as  Eastertide  is  over  I  intend  to  take 
you  away  with  me  for  ten  days  or  so  and  leave  Mrs.  Denys 
in  charge  of — the  bear-garden,  as  I  fear  it  but  too  truly 
resembles.  You  are  quite  unfit  for  the  noise  and  racket 
of  the  holidays.  And  I  myself  have  been  feeling  lately 
the  need  of  a  little — shall  I  call  it  re-creation?"  Mr. 
Lorimer  smiled  self-indulgently  over  the  term.  He  liked 
to  play  with  words.  "I  presume  you  have  no  vital 
objection  to  accompanying  me?" 

281 


282  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Oh,  of  course  not.  I  should  like  it  above  all  things," 
Mrs.  Lorimer  hastened  to  assure  him,  "if  it  were  not  for 
Jeanie.  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  bringing  her  home  just 
when  her  visit  is  beginning  to  do  her  so  much  good." 

"She  cannot  remain  away  for  ever,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 
"Moreover,  her  delicacy  must  have  been  considerably 
exaggerated,  or  such  a  sudden  improvement  could  scarcely 
have  taken  place.  At  all  events,  so  it  appears  to  me. 
She  must  therefore  return  home  and  spend  the  holidays  in 
wholesome  amusements  with  the  other  children;  and  when 
they  are  over,  I  really  must  turn  my  serious  attention  to  her 
education  which  has  been  so  sadly  neglected  since  Christ 
mas.  Mrs.  Denys  is  doubtless  a  very  excellent  woman  in 
her  way,  but  she  is  not,  I  fear,  one  to  whom  I  could  safely 
entrust  the  intellectual  development  of  a  child  of  Jeanie's 
age."  He  paused,  looking  up  with  complacent  enquiry 
at  his  wife's  troubled  face.  "And  now  what  scruples  are 
stirring  in  the  mind  of  my  spouse?"  he  asked,  with  playful 
affection. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  did  not  smile  in  answer.  Her  worried 
little  face  only  drew  into  more  anxious  lines.  "Stephen," 
she  said,  "I  do  wish  you  would  consult  Dr.  Tudor  before 
you  quite  decide  to  have  Jeanie  home  at  present." 

The  Vicar's  mouth  turned  down,  and  he  looked  for  a 
moment  so  extremely  unpleasant  that  Mrs.  Lorimer 
quailed.  Then,  "My  dear,"  he  said  deliberately,  "when 
I  decide  upon  a  specific  course  of  action,  I  carry  it  through 
invariably.  If  I  were  not  convinced  that -what  I  am  about 
to  do  were  right,  I  should  not  do  it.  Pray  let  me  hear  no 
more  upon  the  subject!  And  remember,  Adelaide,  it  is 
my  express  command  that  you  do  not  approach  Dr.  Tudor 
in  this  matter.  Pie  is  a  most  interfering  person,  and  would 
welcome  any  excuse  to  obtain  a  footing  in  this  house  again. 
But  now  that  I  have  at  length  succeeded  in  shaking  him 
off,  I  intend  to  keep  him  at  a  distance  for  the  future.  And 


The  Decision  283 

he  is  not  to  be  called  in — understand  this  very  clearly,  if 
you  please — except  in  a  case  of  extreme  urgency.  This  is  a 
distinct  order,  Adelaide,  and  I  shall  be  severely  displeased 
if  you  fail  to  observe  it.  And  now, "  he  resumed  his  lighter 
manner  again  as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  "I  must  hie  me  to 
the  parish  room  where  my  good  Miss  Whalley  is  awaiting 
me." 

He  stretched  forth  a  firm,  kind  hand  and  patted  his  wife's 
shoulder. 

"We  must  see  what  we  can  do  to  bring  a  little  colour 
into  those  pale  cheeks,"  he  said.  "A  fortnight  in  the 
Cornish  Riviera  perhaps.  Or  we  might  take  a  peep  at 
Shakespeare's  country.  But  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see! 
I  will  write  to  Mrs.  Denys  and  acquaint  her  with  my 
decision  this  evening." 

He  was  gone,  leaving  Mrs.  Lorimer  to  pace  up  and  down 
his  study  in  futile  distress  of  mind.  Only  that  morning  a 
letter  from  A  very  had  reached  her,  telling  her  of  Jeanie's 
continued  progress,  and  urging  her  to  come  and  take  her 
place  for  a  little  while.  It  was  such  a  change  as  her  tired 
soul  craved,  but  she  had  not  dared  to  tell  her  husband  so. 
And  now,  it  seemed,  Jeanie's  good  time  also  was  to  be 
terminated. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Rodding  did  not  suit  the 
child.  She  was  never  well  at  home.  The  Vicarage  was 
shut  in  by  trees,  a  damp,  unhealthy  place.  And  Dr. 
Tudor  had  told  her  in  plain  terms  that.Jeanie  lacked  the 
strength  to  make  any  headway  there.  She  was  like  a 
wilting  plant  in  that  atmosphere.  She  could  not  thrive 
in  it.  Dry  warmth  was  what  she  needed,  and  it  had  made 
all  the  difference  to  her.  Avery's  letter  had  been  full  of 
hope.  She  referred  to  Dr.  Tudor's  simile  of  the  building 
of  a  sea-wall.  "We  are  strengthening  it  every  day,"  she 
wrote.  "In  a  few  more  weeks  it  ought  to  be  proof  against 
any  ordinary  tide." 


284  The  Bars  of  Iron 

A  few  more  weeks!  Mrs.  Lorimer  wrung  her  hands. 
Stephen  did  not  know,  did  not  realize ;  and  she  was  powerless 
to  convince  him.  Avery  would  not  convince  him  either. 
He  tolerated  only  Avery  because  she  was  so  useful. 

She  knew  exactly  the  sort  of  letter  he  would  write, 
desiring  their  return;  and  Avery,  for  all  her  quiet  strength, 
would  have  to  submit.  Oh,  it  was  cruel — cruel! 

The  tears  were  coursing  down  her  cheeks  when  the  door 
opened  unexpectedly  and  Olive  entered.  She  paused  at 
sight  of  her  mother,  looking  at  her  with  just  the  Vicar's 
air  of  chill  enquiry. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  turned  hastily  to  the  window  and  began  to 
dry  her  eyes. 

Olive  went  to  a  bookshelf  and  stood  before  it.  After  a 
moment  she  took  out  a  book  and  deliberately  turned  the 
leaves.  Her  attitude  was  plainly  repressive. 

Finally  she  returned  the  book  to  the  shelf  and  turned. 
"Why  are  you  crying,  Mother?" 

Mrs.  Loiimer  leaned  her  head  against  the  window-frame 
with  a  heavy  sigh.  "I  am  very  miserable,  Olive,"  she 
said,  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"No  one  need  be  that,"  observed  Olive.  "Father  says 
that  misery  is  a  sign  of  mental  weakness." 

Mrs.  Lorimer  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  leave  off  crying  and 
find  something  to. do?"  suggested  her  daughter  in  her  cool, 
young  voice. 

Still  Mrs.  Lorimer  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

Olive  came  a  step  nearer.  There  was  obvious  distaste 
on  her  face.  "I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  a  little  brighter 
— for  Father's  sake,"  she  said.  "I  don't  think  you  treat 
him  very  kindly." 

It  was  evident  that  she  spoke  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Mrs. 
Lorimer  straightened  herself  with  another  weary  sigh. 


The  Decision  .285 

"Run  along,  my  dear!"  she  said.  "I  am  sure  you  are 
busy." 

Olive  turned,  half-vexed  and  half -relieved,  and  walked 
to  the  door.  Her  mother  watched  her  wistfully.  It  was  in 
her  mind  to  call  her  back,  fold  her  in  her  arms,  and  appeal 
for  sympathy.  But  the  severity  of  the  child's  pose  was 
too  suggestive  of  the  Vicar's  unbending  attitude  towards 
feminine  weakness,  and  she  restrained  the  impulse,  knowing 
that  she  would  appeal  in  vain.  There  was  infinitely  more 
comfort  to  be  found  in  the  society  of  Baby  Phil,  and,  smiling- 
wanly  at  the  thought,  she  went  up  to  the  nursery  in  search 
of  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  LAST  DEBT 

INHERE  was  no  combating  the  Vicar's  decision.     Avery 
1      realized  that  fact  from  the  outset  even  before  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  agitated  note  upon  the  subject  reached  her.     The 
fiat  had  gone  forth,  and  submission  was  the  only  course. 

Jeanie  received  the  news  without  a  murmur.  "I  don't 
mind  really, "  she  said.  "It's  very  nice  here,  but  then  it's 
nice  at  home  too  when  you  are  there.  And  then  there  is 
Piers  too. " 

Yes,  there  was  Piers, — another  consideration  that  filled 
Avery  with  uneasiness.  No  word  from  Piers  had  reached 
her  since  that  early  morning  on  the  shore,  but  his  silence 
did  not  reassure  her.  She  had  half  expected  a  boyish  letter 
of  apology,  some  friendy  reassurance,  some  word  at  least  of 
his  return  to  Rodding  Abbey.  But  she  had  heard  nothing. 
She  did  not  so  much  as  know  if  he  had  returned  or  not. 

Neither  had  she  heard  from  her  friend  Edmund  Crowther. 
With  a  sense  of  keen  disappointment  she  wrote  to  his  home 
in  the  North  to  tell  him  of  the  change  in  her  plans.  She 
could  not  ask  him  to  the  Vicarage,  and  it  seemed  that  she 
might  not  meet  him  after  all. 

She  also  sent  a  hurried  note  to  Lennox  Tudor,  but  they 
had  only  three  days  in  which  to  terminate  their  visit,  and 
she  received  no  reply.  Later,  she  heard  that  Tudor  had 
been  away  for  those  days  and  did  not  open  the  note  until 
the  actual  day  of  their  return. 

286 


The  Last  Debt  287 

The  other  children  were  expected  home  from  school 
during  the  week  before  Easter,  and  Mr.  Lorimer  desired 
that  A  very  should  be  at  the  Vicarage  to  prepare  for  them. 
So,  early  in  the  week,  they  returned. 

It  seemed  that  Spring  had  come  at  last.  The  hedges  were 
all  bursting  into  tenderest  green,  and  all  the  world  looked 
young. 

"The  primroses  will  be  out  in  the  Park  woods,"  said 
Jeanie.  "We  will  go  and  gather  heaps  and  heaps. " 

"Are  you  allowed  to  go  wherever  you  like  there?"  asked 
A  very,  thinking  of  the  game. 

"Oh  no,  "  said  Jeanie  thoughtfully.  "But  we  always  do. 
Mr.  Marshall  chases  us  sometimes,  but  we  always  get  away. " 

She  smiled  at  the  thought,  and  Avery  frankly  rejoiced 
to  see  her  enthusiasm  for  the  wicked  game  of  trespassing  in 
the  Squire's  preserves.  She  did  not  know  that  the  amuse 
ment  had  been  strictly  prohibited  by  the  Vicar,  and  it  did 
not  occur  to  Jeanie  to  tell  her.  None  of  the  children  had 
ever  paid  any  attention  to  the  prohibition.  There  were 
some  rules  that  no  one  could  keep. 

The  return  of  the  rest  of  the  family  kept  the  days  that 
succeeded  their  return  extremely  lively.  Jeanie  was  in 
higher  spirits  than  Avery  had  ever  seen  her.  She  seemed 
more  childish,  more  eager  for  fun,  as  though  some  of  the 
zest  of  life  had  got  into  her  veins  at  last.  Her  mother 
ascribed  the  change  to  Avery's  influence,  and  was  pathetic 
in  her  gratitude,  though  Avery  disclaimed  all  credit  declar 
ing  that  the  sea-air  had  wrought  the  wonder. 

When  Lennox  Tudor  saw  her,  he  looked  at  Avery  with  an 
odd  smile  behind  his  glasses.  "You've  built  the  wall,"  he 
said. 

They  had  met  by  the  churchyard  gate,  and  Jeanie  and 
Pat  were  having  a  hopping  race  down  the  hill.  Avery 
looked  after  them  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness.  "But  I  wish 
she  could  have  been  away  longer. " 


288  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Tudor  frowned.  "Yes.  Why  on  earth  not?  The  Rever 
end  Stephen  again,  I  suppose.  I  wish  I  had  had  your  letter 
sooner,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  I'm  not  in  favour  just  now, 
and  my  interference  would  probably  weigh  in  the  wrong 
balance.  Keep  the  child  out  as  much  as  possible!  It's 
the  only  way.  She  has  made  good  progress.  There  is  no 
reason  at  present  why  she  should  go  back  again.  " 

No,  there  was  no  reason ;  yet  Avery's  heart  misgave  her. 
She  wished  she  might  have  had  longer  for  the  building  of 
that  wall.  Good  Friday  was  more  or  less  a  day  of  penance 
in  the  Vicar's  family.  It  began  with  lengthy  prayers  in  the 
dining-room,  so  lengthy  that  Avery  feared  that  Mrs.  Lorimer 
would  faint  ere  they  came  to  an  end.  Then  after  a  rigor 
ously  silent  breakfast  the  children  were  assembled  in  the 
study  to  be  questioned  upon  the  Church  Catechism — a 
species  of  discipline  peculiarly  abhorrent  to  them  all 
by  reason  of  the  Vicar's  sarcastic  comments  upon  their 
ignorance. 

At  the  end  of  this  dreary  exercise  they  were  dismissed  to 
prepare  for  church  where  there  followed  a  service  which 
Avery  regarded  as  downright  revolting.  It  consisted 
mainly  of  prayers — as  many  prayers  as  the  Vicar  could  get 
in,  rendered  in  an  emotionless  monotone  with  small  regard 
for  sense  and  none  whatever  for  feeling.  The  whole  thing 
was  drab  and  unattractive  to  the  utmost  limit,  and  Avery 
rose  at  length  from  her  knees  with  a  feeling  of  having  been 
deliberately  cheated  of  a  thing  she  valued.  She  left  the 
church  in  an  unwonted  spirit  of  exasperation,  which  lasted 
throughout  the  midday  meal,  which  was  as  oppressively 
silent  as  breakfast  had  been. 

The  open  relief  with  which  the  children  trooped  away  to 
the  schoolroom  found  a  warm  echo  in  her  heart.  She  even 
almost  smiled  in  sympathy  when  Julian  breathed  a  deep 
thanksgiving  that  that  show  was  over  for  one  more  year. 

Neither  Piers  nor  his  grandfather  had  been  in  the  church, 


The  Last  Debt  289 

and  their  absence  did  not  surprise  her.  She  did  not  feel 
that  she  herself  could  ever  face  such  a  service  again.  The 
memory  of  Piers  at  the  organ  came  to  her  as  she  dressed 
to  accompany  the  children  upon  their  primrosing  expedi 
tion,  and  a  sudden  passionate  longing  followed  it  to  hear 
that  music  again.  She  was  feeling  starved  in  her  soul  that 
day. 

But  when  they  reached  the  green  solitudes  of  the  park 
woodlands  the  bitterness  began  to  pass  away.  It  was  all  so 
beautiful;  the  mossy  riding  up  which  they  turned  was  so 
springy  underfoot,  and  the  singing  of  a  thousand  birds  made 
endless  music  whichever  way  they  wandered. 

"It's  better  than  church,  isn't  it?"  said  Jeanie  softly, 
pressing  close  to  her.  And  Avery  smiled  in  answer.  It 
was  balm  to  the  spirit. 

The  Squire's  preserves  were  enclosed  in  wire  netting, 
and  over  this  they  climbed  into  their  primrose  paradise. 
Several  partridges  rose  from  the  children's  feet,  and  whirred 
noisily  away,  to  the  nuge  delight  of  the  boys  but  to  Avery's 
considerable  dismay.  However,  Marshall  was  evidently  not 
within  earshot,  and  they  settled  down  to  the  serious  business 
of  filling  their  baskets  for  the  church  decorations  without 
interference. 

The  primroses  grew  thickly  in  a  wonderful  carpet  that 
spread  in  all  directions,  sloping  down  to  a  glade  where 
gurgled  a  brown  stream.  Down  this  glade  Avery  directed 
her  party,  keeping  a  somewhat  anxious  eye  upon  Gracie 
and  the  three  boys  who  were  in  the  wildest  spirits  after  the 
severe  strain  of  the  morning.  She  and  Jeanie  picked 
rapidly  and  methodically.  Olive  had  decided  not  to 
accompany  the  expedition.  She  did  not  care  for  prim- 
rosing,  she  told  Avery,  and  her  father  had  promised  to  read 
the  Testament  in  Greek  with  her  later  in  the  afternoon,  an 
intellectual  exercise  which  she  plainly  regarded  as  extremely 
meritorious. 


290  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Her  absence  troubled  no  one;  in  fact  Julian,  having  over 
heard  her  excuse,  remarked  rudely  that  if  she  was  going  to 
put  on  side,  they  were  better  off  without  her;  and  Avery 
secretly  agreed  with  him. 

So  in  cheery  accord  they  went  their  careless  way  through 
the  preserves,  scaring  the  birds  and  filling  their  baskets  with 
great  industry.  They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  glade 
and  were  contemplating  fording  the  brook  when  like  a  bolt 
from  the  blue  discovery  came  upon  them.  A  sound,  like 
the  blare  of  an  angry  bull,  assailed  them — a  furious  inarticu 
late  sound  that  speedily  resolved  into  words. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  mischievous  brats  doing  there?" 

The  whole  party  jumped  violently  at  the  suddenness  of 
the  attack.  Avery's  heart  gave  a  most  unpleasant  jerk. 
She  knew  that  voice. 

Swiftly  she  turned  in  the  direction  whence  it  came,  and 
saw  again  the  huge  white  horse  of  the  trampling  hoofs  that 
had  once  before  been  urged  against  her. 

He  was  stamping  and  fretting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stream,  the  banks  of  which  were  so  steep  as  almost  to  form 
a  chasm,  and  from  his  back  the  terrible  old  Squire  hurled 
the  vials  of  his  wrath. 

Ronald  drew  near  to  Avery,  while  Jeanie  slipped  a 
nervous  hand  into  hers.  Julian,  however,  turned  a  defiant 
face.  "  It's  all  right.  He  can't  get  at  us, "  he  said  audibly. 

At  which  remark  Gracie  laughed  a  little  hysterically,  and 
Pat  made  a  grimace. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  last  that  chiefly  infuriated  the  Squire, 
for  he  literally  bellowed  with  rage,  snatched  his  animal  back 
with  a  merciless  hand,  and  then  with  whip  and  spur  set  him 
full  at  the  stream. 

It  was  a  dangerous  leap,  for  the  ground  on  both  banks  was 
yielding  and  slippery.  Avery  stood  transfixed  to  watch 
the  result. 

The  horse  made  a  great  effort  to  obey  his  master's  behests. 


The  Last  Debt  291 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were  furious  too,  Avery  thought,  as 
he  pounded  forward  to  clear  the  obstacle.  His  leap  was 
superb,  clearing  the  stream  by  a  good  six  feet,  but  as  he 
landed  among  the  primroses  disaster  overtook  him.  It 
must  have  been  a  rabbit-hole,  Avery  reflected  later;  for  he 
blundered  as  he  touched  the  ground,  plunged  forward,  and 
fell  headlong. 

There  followed  a  few  moments  of  sickening  confusion 
during  which  the  horrified  spectators  had  time  to  realize 
that  Sir  Beverley  was  pinned  under  the  kicking  animal; 
then  with  a  savage  effort  the  great  brute  rolled  over  and 
struggled  to  his  feet. 

With  a  promptitude  that  spoke  well  for  his  nerve,  Julian 
sprang  forward  and  caught  the  dangling  bridle.  The 
creature  tried  to  jib  back  upon  his  prostrate  master,  but  he 
dragged  him  forward  and  held  him  fast. 

Old  Sir  Beverley  lay  prone  on  the  ground,  in  an  awful 
stillness,  with  his  white  face  turned  to  the  sky.  His  eyes 
were  fast  shut,  his  arms  flung  wide,  one  hand  still  grasping 
the  whip  which  he  had  wielded  so  fiercely  a  few  seconds 
before. 

"Is  he  dead?"  whispered  Jeanie,  clinging  close  to  Avery. 

Avery  gently  released  herself  and  moved  forward.  "No, 
dear,  no!  He — he  is  only  stunned." 

She  knelt  beside  Sir  Beverley,  overcoming  a  horrible 
sensation  of  sickness  as  she  did  so.  The  whole  catastrophe 
had  been  of  so  sudden  and  so  violent  a  nature  that  she  felt 
almost  stunned  herself. 

She  slipped  an  arm  under  the  old  man's  head,  and  it  hung 
upon  her  like  a  leaden  weight. 

"Oh,  Avery,  how  dreadful!"  exclaimed  Gracie,  aghast. 

"Take  my  handkerchief!"  said  Avery  quickly.  "Run 
down  and  soak  it  in  the  stream!  Mind  how  you  go!  It's 
very  steep." 

Gracie  went  like  the  wind. 


292  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery  began  with  fingers  that  shook  in  spite  of  her  utmost 
resolution,  to  try  to  loosen  Sir  Beverley's  collar. 

"Let  me!"  said  Ronald,  gently. 

She  glanced  up  gratefully  and  relinquished  the  task  to 
him.  Ronald  was  neat  in  all  his  ways. 

The  return  of  Gracie  with  the  wet  handkerchief  gave  her 
something  to  do,  and  she  tenderly  moistened  the  stark, 
white  face.  But  the  children's  fears  were  crowding  thick 
in  her  own  heart.  That  awful  inertness  looked  so  terribly 
like  death. 

And  then  suddenly  the  grim  lips  parted  and  a  quivering 
sigh  passed  through  them. 

The  next  moment  abruptly  the  grey  eyes  opened  and 
gazed  full  at  Avery  with  a  wide,  glassy  stare. 

"What  the — what  the — "  stammered  Sir  Beverley,  and 
broke  off  with  a  hard  gasp. 

Avery  sought  to  raise  him  higher,  but  his  weight  was  too 
much  for  her  even  with  Ronald  assisting. 

"Find  my — flask!"  jerked  out  Sir  Beverley,  with  panting 
breath. 

Ronald  began  to  search  in  his  pockets  and  finally  drew  it 
forth.  He  opened  it  and  gave  it  to  Avery  who  held  it  to  the 
twitching  lips. 

Sir  Beverley  drank  and  closed  his  eyes.  "I  shall  be — 
better  soon,"  he  said,  in  a  choked  whisper. 

Avery  waited,  supporting  him  as  strongly  as  she  cquld, 
listening  to  the  short  laboured  breathing  with  deep 
foreboding. 

"  Couldn't  I  run  down  to  the  Abbey  for  help?"  suggested 
Julian,  who  had  succeeded  at  length  in  tying  the  chafing 
animal  to  a  tree. 

Avery  considered.     "  I  don't  know.     How  far  is  it?" 

"  Not  more  than  a  mile.  P'r'aps  I  should  find  Piers  there. 
I'm  sure  I'd  better  go, "  the  boy  urged,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
deathly  face. 


The  Last  Debt  293 

And  after  a  moment  Avery  agreed  with  him.  "Yes,  I 
think  perhaps  you'd  better.  Grade  and  Pat  might  go  for 
Dr.  Tudor  meanwhile.  I  do  hope  you  will  find  Piers. 
Tell  him  to  bring  two  men,  and  something  that  they  can 
carry  him  on.  Jeanie  dear,  you  run  home  to  your  mother 
and  tell  her  how  it  is  that  we  shall  be  late  for  tea.  You 
won't  startle  her,  I  know.". 

They  fell  in  with  her  desires  at  once.  There  was  not 
one  of  them  who  would  not  have  done  anything  for  her. 
And  so  they  scattered,  departing  upon  their  several  missions, 
leaving  Ronald  only  to  share  her  vigil  by  the  old  Squire's 
side. 

For  a  long  time  after  their  departure,  there  was  no  change 
in  Sir  Beverley's  state.  He  lay  propped  against  Avery's 
arm  and  Ronald's  knee  breathing  quickly,  with  painful 
effort,  through  his  parted  lips.  He  kept  his  eyes  closed,  but 
they  knew  that  he  was  conscious  by  the  heavy  frown  that 
drew  his  forehead.  Once  Avery  offered  him  more  brandy, 
but  he  refused  it  impatiently,  and  she  desisted. 

The  deathly  pallor  had,  however,  begun  to  give  place  to  a 
more  natural  hue,  and  as  the  minutes  passed  his  breathing 
gradually  grew  less  distressed.  Once  more  his  eyes  opened, 
and  he  stared  into  Avery's  face. 

"Help  me — to  sit  up!"  he  commanded. 

They  did  their  best,  he  struggling  with  piteously  feeble 
efforts  to  help  himself.  Finally  he  managed  to  drag  him 
self  to  a  leaning  position  on  one  elbow,  though  for  several 
seconds  thereafter  his  gasping  was  terrible  to  hear. 

Avery  saw  his  lips  move  several  times  before  any  sound 
came  from  them.  At  length,  ''Send — that  boy — away!" 
he  gasped  out. 

Avery  and  Ronald  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  boy  got 
to  his  feet  with  an  undecided  air. 

" Do  you  hear?     Go!"  rapped  out  Sir  Beverley. 

"Shall  I,  Avery?"  whispered  Ronald. 


294  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  just  a  little  way!  I'll  call  you  if  I 
want  you." 

And  half-reluctantly  Ronald  obeyed. 

"Has  he  gone?"  asked  Sir  Beverley. 

"Yes."  A  very  remained  on  her  knees  beside  him. 
He  looked  as  if  he  might  collapse  at  any  moment. 

For  awhile  he  lay  struggling  for  breath  with  his  face 
towards  the  ground;  then  very  suddenly  his  strength 
seemed  to  return.  He  raised  his  head  and  regarded  her 
piercingly. 

"You,"  he  said  curtly,  "are  the  young  woman  who 
refused  to  marry  my  grandson." 

The  words  were  so  totally  unexpected  that  A  very  literally 
gasped  with  astonishment.  To  be  taken  to  task  on  this 
subject  was  an  ordeal  for  which  she  was  wholly  unprepared. 

"Well?"  he  said  irritably.  "That  is  so,  I  believe? 
You  did  refuse  to  marry  him?" 

"Yes,"  Avery  admitted,  feeling  the  hot  colour  flood  her 
face  under  the  merciless  scrutiny  of  the  stone-grey  eyes. 
"But— but " 

"Well?"  he  said  again,  still  more  irritably.  "But 
what?" 

"Oh,  need  we  discuss  it?"  she  said  appealingly.  "I 
would  so  much  rather  not." 

"I  desire  to  discuss  it,"  said  Sir  Beverley  autocratically. 
"I  desire  to  know — what  objection  you  have  to  my  grand 
son.  Many  women,  let  me  tell  you,  of  far  higher  social 
standing  than  yourself  would  jump  at  such  a  chance.  But 
you — you  take  upon  yourself  to  refuse  it.  I  desire  to  know 
why. " 

He  spoke  with  a  stubbornness  that  overbore  all  bodily 
weakness.  He  would  be  a  tyrant  to  his  last  breath. 

But  Avery  could  not  bring  herself  to  answer  him.  She 
felt  as  if  he  were  trying  to  force  his  way  into  a  place  which 
she  regarded  as  peculiarly  sacred,  from  which  in  some 


The  Last  Debt  295 

fashion  she  owed  it  to  Piers  as  well  as  to  herself  to  bar  him 
out. 

" I  am  sorry, "  she  said  gently  after  a  moment,  "but  I  am 
afraid  that  is  just  what  I  can't  tell  you. " 

She  saw  Sir  Beverley's  chin  thrust  out  at  just  the  indomit 
able  angle  with  which  Piers  had  made  her  familiar,  and  she 
realized  that  he  had  no  intention  of  abandoning  his  point. 

"You  told  him,  I  suppose?"  he  demanded  gruffly. 

A  faint  sense  of  amusement  arose  within  her,  her  anxiety 
notwithstanding.  It  struck  her  as  ludicrous  that  she 
should  be  browbeaten  on  this  point. 

She  made  answer  with  more  assurance.  "I  told  him 
that  the  idea  was  unsuitable,  out  of  the  question,  that  he 
ought  to  marry  a  girl  of  his  own  age  and  station — not  a 
middle-aged  widow  like  me. " 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Sir  Beverley  impatiently.  "You 
belong  to  the  same  generation,  don't  you?  What  more  do 
you  want  ? ' ' 

If  he  had  slapped  her  face,  Avery  would  scarcely  have 
felt  more  amazed.  She  gazed  at  him  in  silence,  wondering 
if  she  could  have  heard  aright. 

Sir  Beverley  frowned  upon  her  fiercely,  the  iron  will  of 
him  scorning  and  surmounting  his  physical  weakness. 

"You've  got  nothing  against  the  boy,  I  suppose?"  he 
pursued,  with  the  evident  determination  to  get  at  the 
truth  despite  all  opposition.  "He  has  never  given  you 
any  cause  for  complaint?  He's  behaved  himself  like  a 
gentleman,  hey?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course!"  Avery  said  in  distress.  "It's 
not  that!" 

Sir  Beverley  frowned  still  more  heavily.  "Then — what 
the  devil  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Don't  you  like  him  well 
enough?  Aren't  you — in  love  with  him ?"  His  lips  curled 
ironically  over  the  words;  they  sounded  inexpressibly  bitter. 

Avery's  eyes  fell  before  his  pitiless  stare.     She  began 


296  The  Bars  of  Iron 

with  fingers  that  trembled  to  pluck  the  primroses  that  grew 
in  a  large  tuft  close  to  her,  saying  no  word. 

"Well?"   said  Sir  Beverley,   with  growing  impatience. 

She  kept  her  eyes  lowered,  for  she  felt  she  could  not 
meet  his  look  as  she  made  reluctant  answer.  "No,  it  is 
not  either.  In  fact,  if  I  were  a  girl — if  I  had  not  been 
married  before — I  think  I  should  say  Yes.  But — but — 
she  paused,  searching  for  words,  striving  to  restrain  a  rising 
agitation,  "as  it  is,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  quite  fair  to 
him.  I  don't  know  if  I  could  make  him  happy.  I  am  not 
young  enough,  fresh  enough,  gay  enough.  I  can't  offer 
him  a  girl's  first  love,  and  that  is  what  he  ought  to  have. 
I  so  want  him  to  have  the  best.  I  so  want  him  to  be 
happy." 

The  words  were  out  with  a  rush,  almost  before  she  was 
aware  of  uttering  them,  and  suddenly  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  tears  that  caught  her  off  her  guard,  so  that  she  had 
neither  time  nor  strength  to  check  them.  She  turned 
quickly  from  him,  fighting  for  self-control. 

Sir  Beverley  uttered  a  grunt  that  might  have  denoted 
either  surprise  or  disgust,  and  there  followed  a  silence  that 
she  found  peculiarly  difficult  to  bear. 

"So,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  tone  that  was  strictly  devoid 
of  feeling,  "you  care  for  him  too  much  to  marry  him?  Is 
that  it?" 

It  sounded  preposterous,  but  she  was  still  too  near  tears 
for  any  sense  of  humour  to  penetrate  her  distress.  She 
felt  as  if  he  had  remorselessly  wrested  from  her  and  dragged 
to  light  a  treasure  upon  which  she  herself  had  scarcely  dared 
to  look.  She  continued  feverishly  to  pluck  the  pale  flowers 
that  grew  all  about  them,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  task. 

With  a  growling  effort,  Sir  Beverley  raised  himself, 
thrust  forward  a  quivering  hand  and  gripped  hers. 

Startled,  she  turned  towards  him,  meeting  not  hostility 
but  a  certain  grim  kindliness  in  the  hard  old  eyes. 


The  Last  Debt  297 

"Will  you  honour  me  with  your  attention  for  a  moment  ? " 
he  asked,  with  ironical  courtesy. 

"lam  attending,  "  she  answered  meekly. 

"Then, "  he  said,  dropping  all  pretence  at  courtesy  with 
out  further  ceremony,  "permit  me  to  say  that  if  you  don't 
marry  my  grandson,  you'll  be  a  bigger  fool  than  I  take  you 
for.  And  in  my  opinion,  a  sober-minded  woman  like  you 
who  will  see  to  his  comfort  and  be  faithful  to  him  is  more 
likely  to  make  him  happy  than  any  of  your  headlong, 
flighty  girls." 

He  stopped;  but  he  did  not  relinquish  his  hold  upon  her. 
There  was  to  A  very  something  oddly  pathetic  in  the  close 
grasp  of  those  unsteady  fingers.  It  was  as  if  they  made  an 
appeal  which  he  would  have  scorned  to  utter. 

"You  really  wish  me  to  marry  him?"  she  said. 

He  snarled  at  her  like  a  surly  dog.  "Wish  it?  I! 
Good  Heavens  above,  if  I  had  my  way  I'd  never  let  him 
marry  at  all!  But  unfortunately  circumstances  demand 
it;  and  the  boy  himself — the  boy  himself,  well — "  his 
voice  softened  imperceptibly,  rasped  on  a  note  of  tender 
ness,  "he  wants  looking  after;  he's  young,  you  know. 
He'll  be  all  alone  very  soon,  and — it  isn't  considered  good 
for  a  man  to  live  alone — not  a  young  man  anyway. " 

He  broke  off,  still  looking  hard  at  Avery  from  under 
his  drawn  white  brows  as  if  daring  her  to  dispute  the 
matter. 

But  she  said  nothing,  and  after  a  moment  he  resumed 
more  equably:  "That's  all  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject. 
I  wish  you  to  understand  that  for  the  boy's  sake — and  for 
other  considerations — I  have  withdrawn  my  opposition. 
You  can  marry  him — as  soon  as  you  like." 

He  sank  down  again  on  his  elbow,  and  she  saw  a  look  of 
exhaustion  on  his  face.  His  head  drooped  forward  on  his 
chest,  and,  watching  him,  she  realized  that  he  was  an  old, 
old  man  and  very  tired  of  life. 


298  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Suddenly  he  jerked  his  head  up  again  and  met  her 
pitying  eyes. 

"I'm  done,  yes,"  he  said  grimly,  as  if  in  response  to  her 
unspoken  thought.  "But  I've  paid  my  debts — all  of  'em, 
including  this  last.  "  His  voice  began  to  fail,  but  he  forced 
it  on,  speaking  spasmodically,  with  increasing  difficulty. 
"You  sent  my  boy  back  to  me — the  other  day — against 
his  will.  Now  I — make  you  a  present  of  him — in  return. 
There's  good  stuff  in  the  lad, — nothing  shabby  about  him. 
If  you  care  for  him  at  all — you  ought  to  be  able  to  hold 
him — make  him  happy.  Anyway — anyway — you  might 
try!" 

The  appeal  in  the  last  words,  whispered  though  they 
were,  was  undisguised;  and  swiftly,  impulsively,  almost 
before  she  knew  what  she  was  doing,  Avery  responded 
to  it. 

"Oh,  I  will  try!"  she  said  very  earnestly.  "I  will 
indeed!" 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a  moment  with  eyes  of  deep 
searchirg  that  she  never  forgot,  and  then  his  head  dropped 
forward  heavily. 

"You — have — said  it!"  he  said,  and  sank  unconscious 
upon  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE    MESSAGE 

good  Mrs.  Denys,  it  is  quite  fruitless  for  you  to 
argue  the  matter.  Nothing  you  can  say  can  alter 
the  fact  that  you  took  the  children  trespassing  in  the 
Rodding  Park  preserves  against  my  most  stringent  com 
mands,  and  this  deplorable  accident  to  the  Squire  is  the  direct 
outcome  of  the  most  flagrant  insubordination.  I  have 
borne  a  good  deal  from  you,  but  this  I  cannot  overlook. 
You  will  therefore  take  a  month's  notice  from  to-day, 
and  as  it  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  reconsider  my  decision 
in  this  respect  it  would  be  wasted  effort  on  your  part  to 
lodge  any  appeal  against  it.  As  for  the  children,  I  shall 
deal  with  them  in  my  own  way. " 

The  Vicar's  thin  lips  closed  upon  the  words  with  the 
severity  of  an  irrevocable  resolution.  Avery  heard  him 
with  a  sense  of  wild  rebellion  at  her  heart  to  which  she 
knew  she  must  not  give  rein.  She  stood  before  him,  a 
defenceless  culprit  brought  up  for  punishment. 

It  was  difficult  to  be  dignified  under  such  circumstances, 
but  she  did  her  best. 

"I  am  extremely  sorry  that  I  took  the  children  into  the 
preserves, "  she  said.  "But  I  accept  the  full  responsibility 
for  having  done  so.  They  were  not  greatly  to  blame 
in  the  matter." 

"Upon  that  point,"  observed  Mr.  Lorimer,  "I  am  the 
best  judge.  The  children  will  be  punished  as  severely  as  I 

299 


300  The  Bars  of  Iron 

deem  necessary.  Meantime,  you  quite  understand,  do  you 
not,  that  your  duties  here  must  terminate  a  month  from 
now?  I  am  only  sorry  that  I  allowed  myself  to  be  per 
suaded  to  reconsider  my  decision  on  the  last  occasion. 
For  more  than  one  reason  I  think  it  is  to  be  regretted. 
However, — "  he  completed  the  sentence  with  a  heavy 
sigh  and  said  no  more. 

It  was  evident  that  he  desired  to  close  the  interview,  yet 
Avery  lingered.  She  could  not  go  with  the  children's  fate 
still  in  the  balance. 

He   looked   at   her   interrogatively   with   raised   brows. 

"You  will  not  surely  punish  the  children  very  severely?" 
she  said. 

He  waved  a  hand  of  cool  dismissal.  "I  shall  do  what 
ever  seems  to  me  right  and  advisable, "  he  said. 

It  came  to  Avery  that  interference  on  this  subject  would 
do  more  harm  than  good,  and  she  turned  to  go.  At  the  door 
his  voice  arrested  her.  "This  day  month  then,  Mrs.  Denys ! " 

She  bent  her  head  in  silent  acquiescence,  and  went  out. 

In  the  passage  Gracie  awaited  her  and  wound  eager  arms 
about  her. 

"Was  he  very  horrid  to  you,  Avery  darling?  What  did 
he  say?" 

Avery  went  with  her  to  the  schoolroom  where  the  other 
offenders  were  assembled.  It  seemed  to  her  almost  cruel 
to  attempt  to  suppress  the  truth,  but  their  reception  of  it 
went  to  her  heart.  Jeanie — the  placid,  sweet-tempered 
Jeanie — wept  tears  of  such  anguished  distress  that  she 
feared  she  would  make  herself  ill.  Gracie  was  too  angry  to 
weep.  She  wanted  to  go  straight  to  the  study  and  beard 
the  lion  in  his  den,  and  only  Avery 's  most  strenuous  opposi 
tion  restrained  her.  And  into  the  midst  of  their  tribula 
tion  came  Mrs.  Lorimer  to  mingle  her  tears  with  theirs. 

"What  I  shall  do  without  you,  Avery,  I  can't  think," 
was  the  burden  of  her  lament. 


The  Message  301 

Avery  couldn't  think  either,  for  she  knew  better  even 
than  Mrs.  Lorimer  herself  how  much  the  latter  had  come 
to  lean  upon  her. 

She  had  to  turn  her  energies  to  comforting  her  disconso 
late  companions,  but  this  task  was  still  unaccomplished 
when  the  door  opened  and  the  Vicar  stalked  in  upon  them. 

He  observed  his  wife's  presence  with  cold  displeasure,  and 
at  once  proceeded  to  dismiss  her. 

"I  desire  your  presence  in  the  study  for  a  few  moments, 
Adelaide.  Perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  precede 
me  thither. " 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her  with  elaborate  ceremony, 
and  Mrs.  Lorimer  had  no  choice  but  to  obey.  She  departed 
with  a  scared  effort  to  check  her  tears  under  the  stern 
disapproval  of  his  look. 

He  closed  the  door  upon  her  and  advanced  to  the  table, 
gazing  round  upon  them  with  judicial  severity. 

"I  am  here,"  he  announced,  "to  pass  sentence." 

Jeanie,  crying  softly  in  her  corner,  made  desperate 
attempts  to  control  herself  under  the  awful  look  that  was 
at  this  point  concentrated  upon  her. 

After  a  pause  the  Vicar  proceeded,  with  a  spiteful  glance 
at  Avery.  "It  is  my  intention  to  impose  a  holiday-task 
of  sufficient  magnitude  to  keep  you  all  out  of  mischief  during 
the  rest  of  the  holidays.  You  will  therefore  commit  to 
memory  various  different  portions  of  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost  which  I  shall  select,  and  which  must  be  repeated  to  me 
in  their  entirety  without  mistake  on  my  return  from  my  own 
hard-earned  holiday.  And  let  me  give  you  all  fair  warning," 
he  raised  his  voice  and  looked  round  again,  regarding  poor 
Jeanie  with  marked  austerity,  "that  if  any  one  of  you  is  not 
word-perfect  in  his  or  her  task  by  the  day  of  my  return — boy 
or  girl  I  care  not,  the  offence  is  the  same — he  or  she  will 
receive  a  sound  caning  and  the  task  will  be  returned. " 

Thus  he  delivered  himself,  and  turned  to  go ;  but  paused  at 


302  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  door  to  add,  "Also,  Mrs.  Denys,  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  remember  that  it  is  against  my  express  command 
that  either  you  or  any  of  the  children  should  enter  any  part 
of  Rodding  Park  during  my  absence.  I  desire  that  to  be 
clearly  understood. " 

"  It  is  understood, "  said  A  very  in  a  low  voice. 

"That  is  well,"  said  the  Reverend  Stephen,  and  walked 
majestically  from  the  room. 

A  few  seconds  of  awed  silence  followed  his  departure; 
then  to  Avery's  horror  Gracie  snatched  off  one  of  her  shoes 
and  flung  it  violently  at  the  door  that  he  had  closed  behind 
him.  Luckily  for  Gracie,  her  father  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  before  this  episode  took  place  and  beyond  earshot  also 
of  the  furious  storm  of  tears  that  followed  it,  with  which 
even  Avery  found  it  difficult  to  cope. 

It  had  been  a  tragic  day  throughout,  and  she  was  thank 
ful  when  at  length  it  drew  to  a  close. 

But  when  night  came  at  last,  and  she  lay  down  in  the 
darkness,  she  found  herself  much  too  full  of  thought  for 
sleep.  Till  then,  she  had  not  had  time  to  review  the  day's 
happenings,  but  they  crowded  upon  her  as  she  lay,  driving 
away  all  possibility  of  repose. 

What  was  she  going  to  do?  Over  and  over  again  she 
asked  herself  the  question,  bringing  herself  as  it  were  each 
time  to  contemplate  afresh  the  obstacle  that  had  arisen 
in  her  path.  Had  she  really  promised  to  marry  Piers? 
The  Squire  evidently  thought  she  had.  The  memory  of 
those  last  words  of  his  came  back  to  her  again  and  again. 
He  had  been  very  much  in  earnest,  veiy  anxious  to  provide 
for  his  boy's  future,  desperately  afraid  of  leaving  him  alone. 
How  would  he  view  his  impetuous  action,  she  wondered, 
on  the  morrow?  Had  he  not  even  now  possibly  begun 
to  repent?  Would  he  really  desire  her  to  take  him  literally? 

And  Piers, — what  of  Piers?  A  sudden,  warm  thrill  ran 
through  her.  She  glowed  from  head  to  foot.  She  had  not 


The  Message  303 

seen  Piers  since  that  morning  by  the  sea.  She  had  a  feeling 
that  he  was  purposely  avoiding  her,  and  yet  deep  in  the 
secret  heart  of  her  she  knew  that  what  she  had  rejected  over 
and  over  again  was  still  irrevocably  her  own.  He  would 
come  back  to  her.  She  knew  he  would  come  back.  And 
again  that  strange  warmth  filled  her  veins.  The  memory 
of  him  just  then  was  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  after  a  day  of 
storm. 

He  had  not  been  at  home  when  Julian  had  taken  the  news 
of  the  Squire's  accident  to  the  Abbey,  and  only  menservants 
had  come  to  the  rescue.  She  had  accompanied  them  part 
of  the  way  back,  but  Tudor  had  overtaken  them  in  the 
drive,  and  she  and  the  boys  had  turned  back.  Sir  Beverley 
had  been  exhausted  and  but  half -conscious,  and  he  had  not 
uttered  another  word  to  her.  She  wished  Dr.  Tudor  had 
looked  in  on  his  way  home,  and  then  wondered  if  the  Squire's 
condition  were  such  as  to  necessitate  his  spending  the  night 
at  the  Abbey.  He  had  once  told  her  that  Sir  Beverley 
suffered  from  a  weakness  of  the  heart  which  might  develop 
seriously  at  any  time ;  but  though  himself  fully  aware  of  the 
fact,  the  old  man  had  never  permitted  Piers  to  be  told. 
She  had  deemed  it  unfair  to  Piers,  but  it  was  no  matter  for 
interference.  A  great  longing  to  know  what  was  happening 
possessed  her.  Surely — surely  Mr.  Lorimer  would  send  up 
in  the  morning  to  enquire ! 

Her  thoughts  took  another  turn.  She  had  been  given 
definite  notice  to  go.  In  her  efforts  to  console  Mrs.  Lori 
mer,  and  the  children,  she  had  scarcely  herself  realized  all 
that  it  would  imply.  She  began  to  picture  the  parting,  and 
a  quiver  of  pain  went  through  her.  How  they  had  all  grown 
about  her  heart!  How  would  she  bear  to  say  good-bye  to 
her  little  delicate  Jeanie?  And  how  would  the  child  fare 
without  her?  She  hardly  dared  to  think. 

And  then  again  that  blinding  ray  of  sunshine  burst 
riotously  through  her  clouds.  If  the  impossible  happened, 


304  The  Bars  of  Iron 

if  she  ever  married  Piers — for  the  first  time  she  deliberately 
faced  and  contemplated  the  thought — would  she  not  be  at 
least  within  reach  if  trouble  came?  A  little  thrill  of  spiteful 
humour  ran  through  her  at  this  point.  She  was  quite  sure 
that  under  such  circumstances  she  would  not  be  refused 
admittance  to  the  Vicar's  home.  As  Piers'  wife,  its  doors 
would  always  be  open  to  her. 

As  Piers'  wife!  She  found  herself  repeating  the  words, 
repeating  and  repeating  them  till  their  strangeness  began 
to  give  place  to  a  certain  familiarity.  Was  it  after  all  true, 
as  he  had  once  so  vehemently  asserted,  that  they  were  meant 
for  each  other,  belonged  to  each  other,  that  the  fate  of  each 
was  bound  in  that  of  the  other?  What  if  she  were  a  woman 
grown?  What  if  her  years  outnumbered  his?  Had  he  not 
waked  in  her  such  music  as  her  soul  had  never  known  be 
fore?  Had  he  not  opened  for  her  the  gates  of  the  forbidden 
land?  And  was  there  after  all,  any  actual  reason  that  she 
should  refuse  to  enter?  That  land  where  the  sun  shone  al 
ways  and  the  flowers  bloomed  without  fading !  That  land 
where  it  was  always  spring! 

There  came  in  her  soul  a  sudden  swift  ecstasy  that  was 
like  the  singing  of  many  birds  in  the  dawning,  thrilling  her 
through  and  through.  She  rose  from  her  bed  as  though  in 
answer  to  a  call,  and  went  to  her  open  window. 

There  before  her,  silver  against  the  darkness,  there 
shone  a  single  star.  The  throbbing  splendour  of  it  seemed 
to  pierce  her.  She  held  her  breath  as  one  waiting  for  a 
message. 

And,  as  she  stood  waiting,  through  her  heart,  softly, 
triumphantly,  the  message  came,  spoken  in  the  voice  she 
had  come  to  hear  through  all  other  voices. 

"  It  is  the  Star  of  Hope,  Avery ;  yours — and  mine. " 

But  even  as  she  watched  with  all  her  spirit  a-quiver  with 
the  wonder  of  it,  the  vision  passed;  the  star  was  veiled. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  DARK  HOUR 

A  VERY  was  very  early  at  the  church  on  the  following 
morning,  and  had  begun  the  work  of  decorating  even 
before  Miss  Whalley  appeared  on  the  scene.  It  was  a  day 
of  showers  and  fleeting  gleams  of  sunshine,  and  the  interior 
of  the  little  building  flashed  from  gloom  to  brilliance,  and 
from  brilliance  back  to  gloom  with  fitful  frequency. 

Daffodils  and  primroses  were  littered  all  around  Avery, 
and  a  certain  subdued  pleasure  was  hers  as  she  decked  the 
place  with  the  spring  flowers.  She  was  quite  alone,  for  by 
the  Vicar's  inflexible  decree  all  the  elder  children,  with  the 
exception  of  Olive,  were  confined  to  the  schoolroom  for  the 
morning  with  their  respective  tasks. 

The  magnitude  of  these  tasks  had  struck  dismay  to 
Avery's  heart.  She  did  not  privately  believe  that  any  one 
of  them  could  ever  be  accomplished  in  the  prescribed  time. 
But  the  day  of  reckoning  was  not  yet,  and  she  put  it  reso 
lutely  from  her  mind.  It  was  useless  to  forestall  trouble, 
and  her  own  burden  of  toil  that  day  demanded  all  her 
energies. 

The  advent  of  Miss  Whalley,  thin  and  acid,  put  an  end  to 
all  enjoyment  thereof.  She  bestowed  a  cool  greeting  upon 
Avery,  and  came  at  once  to  her  side  to  criticize  her  decora 
tion  of  the  font.  Miss  Whalley  always  assumed  the  direc 
tion  of  affairs  on  these  occasions,  and  she  regarded  Avery's 
assistance  in  the  place  of  Mrs.  Lorimer's  weak  efforts  in 
something  of  the  light  of  an  intrusion. 
20 ,  305 


306  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery  stood  and  listened  to  her  suggestions  with  grave 
forbearance.  She  never  disputed  anything  with  Miss 
Whalley,  which  may  have  been  in  part  the  reason  for  the 
latter's  somewhat  suspicious  attitude  towards  her. 

They  were  still  standing  before  the  font  while  Miss 
Whalley  unfolded  her  scheme  when  there  came  the  sound 
of  feet  in  the  porch,  and  Lennox  Tudor  put  his  head  in. 

His  eyes  fell  at  once  upon  Avery.  He  hesitated  a  moment 
tJien  entered. 

She  turned  eagerly  to  meet  him.  "  Oh,  how  is  the  Squire 
this  morning?  Have  you  been  up  to  the  Abbey  yet?" 

' '  The  Squire ! ' '  echoed  Miss  Whalley.  "  Is  he  ill  ?  I  was 
not  aware  of  it." 

Avery's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Tudor's  face,  and  all  in  a 
moment  she  realized  that  he  had  been  up  all  night. 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  Miss  Whalley,  but  spoke  to 
Avery,  and  to  her  alone.  "  I  have  just  come  back  from  the 
Abbey.  The  Squire  died  about  an  hour  ago. " 

"The  Squire ! "  said  Miss  Whalley  again,  in  staccato  tones. 

Avery  said  nothing,  but  she  turned  suddenly  white, 
so  white  that  Tudor  was  moved  to  compunction. 

"I  shouldn't  have  blurted  it  out  like  that.  Sit  down! 
The  poor  old  chap  never  rallied  really.  He  had  a  little  talk 
with  Piers  half-an-hour  or  so  before  he  went.  But  it  was 
only  the  last  flicker  of  the  candle.  We  couldn't  save  him. " 

He  bent  down  over  her.  "Don't  look  like  that!  It 
wasn't  your  fault.  It  was  bound  to  come.  I've  foreseen  it 
for  some  little  time.  I  told  him  it  was  madness  to  go  out 
riding  as  he  did;  but  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Avery,  I 
say!  Avery!"  His  voice  sank  to  an  undertone. 

She  forced  her  stiff  lips  to  smile  faintly  in  answer  to  the 
concern  it  held.  With  an  effort  she  commanded  herself. 

"What  of  Piers?"  she  said. 

He  stood  up  again  with  a  sharp  gesture,  and  turned  from 
her  to  answer  Miss  Whalley's  eager  questions. 


The  Dark  Hour  307 

"Surely  it  is  very  sudden ! "  the  latter  was  saying.  " How 
did  it  happen?  Will  there  be  an  inquest?" 

"There  will  not,"  said  Tudor  curtly.  "I  have  been 
attending  the  Squire  for  some  time,  and  I  knew  that  sooner 
or  later  this  would  happen.  The  Vicar  is  not  here?"  He 
turned  to  Avery.  "I  promised  to  look  in  on  him  on  my 
way  back.  Shall  I  find  him  at  the  Vicarage?" 

He  was  gone  almost  before  she  could  answer,  and  Avery 
was  left  on  the  seat  by  the  door,  staring  before  her  with  a 
wildly  throbbing  heart,  still  asking  herself  with  a  curious 
insistence,  ' '  What  of  Piers  ?  What  of  Piers  ? ' ' 

Miss  Whalley  surveyed  her  with  marked  disapproval. 
She  considered  it  great  presumption  on  Avery 's  part  to  be 
upset  by  such  a  matter,  and  her  attitude  said  as  much  as  she 
walked  with  a  stately  air  down  the  church  and  commenced 
her  own  self-appointed  task  of  decorating  the  pulpit. 

Avery  did  not  stir  for  several  seconds;  and  when  she  did 
it  was  to  go  to  the  open  door  and  stand  there  looking  out  into 
the  spring  sunshine.  She  felt  strangely  incapable  of  grasp 
ing  what  had  happened.  She  could  not  realize  that  that 
dominant  personality  that  had  striven  with  her  only  yester 
day — only  yesterday — had  passed  utterly  away  in  a  few 
hours.  It  seemed  incredible,  beyond  the  bounds  of  possi 
bility.  Again  and  again  Sir  Beverley's  speech  and  look 
returned  to  her.  How  emphatic  he  had  been,  how  reso 
lutely  determined  to  attain  his  end!  He  had  discharged 
his  obligation,  as  he  had  said.  He  had  paid  his  last  debt. 
And  in  the  payment  of  it  he  had  laid  upon  her  a  burden 
which  she  had  felt  compelled  to  accept. 

Would  it  prove  too  much  for  her,  she  wondered  ?  Had  she 
yet  again  taken  a  false  step  that  could  never  be  retraced? 
Again  the  thought  of  Piers  went  through  her,  piercing  her 
like  a  sword.  Piers  alone!  Piers  in  trouble!  She  wished 
that  Dr.  Tudor  had  answered  her  question  even  though  she 
regretted  having  asked  it.  How  would  he  bear  his  solitude. 


308  The  Bars  of  Iron 

she  wondered  with  an  aching  heart;  and  a  sudden  great 
longing  arose  within  her  to  go  and  comfort  him,  as  she 
alone  possessed  the  power  to  comfort.  All  selfish  considera 
tions  departed  with  the  thought.  She  realized  poignantly 
'all  that  Sir  Beverley  had  visualized  when  he  had  told  her 
that  very  soon  his  boy  would  be  all  alone.  She  knew  fully 
why  he  had  pressed  upon  her  the  task  of  helping  Piers 
through  his  dark  hour.  He  had  known — as  she  also  knew — 
how  sore  would  be  his  need  of  help.  And  as  this  came  home 
to  her,  her  strength — that  strength  which  was  the  patient 
building  of  all  the  years  of  her  womanhood — came  back 
to  her,  and  she  felt  renewed  and  unafraid. 

She  returned  to  her  work  with  a  steadfastness  of  purpose 
that  even  Miss  Whalley  viewed  with  distant  admiration; 
working  throughout  the  morning  while  the  minute  bell  tolled 
overhead,  rendering  honour  to  the  departed  Stjuire. 

When  she  left  at  length  to  return  to  the  Vicarage  for  the 
midday  meal,  her  portion  was  done. 

But  it  was  not  till  night  came  again  that  she  found  time  to 
write  the  few  brief  words  that  she  had  been  revolving  in  her 
mind  all  day  long. 

"DEAR  PIERS, 

"I  am  thinking  of  you  constantly,  and  longing  to  help  you 
in  your  trouble.  Let  me  know  if  there  is  anything  whatever 
that  I  can  do,  and  I  shall  be  ready  at  any  time. 

"With  love  from  A  very. " 

Her  face  glowed  softly  over  the  writing  of  the  note.  She 
slipped  out  and  posted  it  before  she  went  to  bed. 

He  would  get  it  in  the  morning,  and  he  would  be  com 
forted.  For  he  would  understand.  She  was  sure  that  he 
would  understand. 

Of  herself  all  through  that  second  wakeful  night  she  did 
not  think  at  all,  and  so  no  doubts  rose  to  torment  her.  She 


The  Dark  Hour  309 

lay  in  a  species  of  tired  wonder.  She  was  keeping  her 
promise  to  the  dead  man,  and  in  the  keeping  of  it  there  was 
peace. 

The  great  square  Abbey  pew  at  the  top  of  the  church  was 
empty  throughout  Easter  Sunday.  A  heavy  gloom  reigned 
at  the  Vicarage.  Avery  and  the  children  were  in  dire 
disgrace,  and  Mrs.  Lorimer  spent  most  of  the  day  in  tears. 
She  could  not  agree  with  the  Vicar  that  they  were  directly 
responsible  for  the  Squire's  death.  Dr.  Tudor  had  been 
very  emphatic  in  assuring  them  that  what  had  happened 
had  been  the  inevitable  outcome  of  a  disease  of  long  stand 
ing.  But  this  assurance  did  not  in  any  way  modify  the 
Vicar's  attitude,  and  he  decided  that  the  five  children 
should  spend  their  time  in  solitary  confinement  until  after 
the  da}'  fixed  for  the  funeral. 

This  was  to  be  Easter  Tuesday,  and  he  himself  had 
arranged  to  depart  the  day  after — an  event  to  which  the 
entire  household,  with  the  single  exception  of  Olive,  looked 
forward  with  the  greatest  eagerness. 

No  message  came  from  Piers  that  night,  and  Avery 
wondered  a  little,  but  without  uneasiness.  He  must  have 
so  very  much  to  think  of  and  do  at  such  a  time,  she  reflected. 
He  would  scarcely  even  have  begun  to  feel  the  dreadful 
loneliness. 

But  when  the  next  day  passed,  and  still  no  answer  came, 
a  vague  anxiety  awoke  within  her.  Surely  her  message  had 
reached  him!  Surely  he  must  have  read  it !  The  Piers  she 
knew  would  have  dashed  off  some  species  of  reply  at  once. 
How  was  it  he  delayed? 

The  day  of  the  funeral  came,  and  the  Easter  flowers  were 
all  taken  away.  The  Vicarage  blinds  were  drawn,  the  bell 
tolled  again,  and  Jeanie,  weighed  down  with  a  dreadful 
sense  of  wickedness,  lay  face  downwards  on  the  schoolroom 
sofa  and  wept  and  wept. 

Avery  was  very  anxious  about  her.     The  disgrace  and 


310  The  Bars  of  Iron 

punishment  of  the  past  few  days  had  told  upon  her.  She 
was  sick  with  trouble  and  depression,  and  Avery  could  find  no 
means  of  comforting  her.  She  had  meant  herself  to  slip  out 
and  to  go  to  the  funeral  for  Piers'  sake,  but  she  felt  she  could 
not  leave  the  child.  So  she  sat  with  her  in  the  darkened 
room,  listening  to  her  broken  sobbing,  aware  that  in  the 
solitude  of  her  room  Gracie  was  crying  too,  and  longing 
passionately  to  gather  together  all  five  of  the  luckless 
offenders  and  deliver  them  from  their  land  of  bondage. 

But  there  was  to  be  no  deliverance  that  day,  nor  any 
lightening  of  the  burden.  The  funeral  over,  the  Vicar  re 
turned  and  sent  for  each  child  separately  to  the  study  for 
prayer  and  admonition.  Jeanie  was  the  last  to  face  this 
ordeal  and  before  it  was  half  over  Avery  was  sent  for  also 
to  find  her  lying  on  the  study  sofa  in  a  dead  faint. 

Avery's  indignation  was  intense,  but  she  could  not  give 
it  vent.  Even  the  Vicar  was  a  little  anxious,  and  when 
Avery's  efforts  succeeded  at  length  in  restoring  her,  he 
reprimanded  Jeanie  severely  and  reduced  her  once  more 
to  tears  of  uncontrollable  distress. 

The  long,  dreary  day  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the 
thought  of  a  happier  morrow  comforted  them  all.  But 
Avery,  though  she  slept  that  night,  was  troubled  by  a  dream 
that  came  to  her  over  and  over  again  throughout  the  long 
hours.  She  seemed  to  see  Piers,  as  he  had  once  described 
himself,  a  prisoner  behind  bars ;  and  ever  as  she  looked  upon 
him  he  strove  with  gigantic  efforts  that  were  wholly  vain, 
to  force  the  bars  asunder  and  come  to  her.  She  could  not 
help  him,  could  not  even  hear  his  voice.  But  the  agony  of 
his  eyes  haunted  her — haunted  her.  She  awoke  at  last 
in  anguish  of  spirit,  and  slept  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  SUMMONS 

WITH  the  morning  came  a  general  feeling  of  relief 
The  Vicar  was  almost  jocose,  and  Mrs.  Lorimei 
made  timid  attempts  to  be  mirthful  though  the  parting 
with  her  children  sorely  tried  her  fortitude. 

The  boys'  spirits  were  subdued,  but  they  burst  forth 
uproariously  as  soon  as  the  station-cab  was  well  outside 
the  gate.  Ronald  and  Julian  cheered  themselves  hoarse, 
and  Pat  scuttled  off  to  the  back  of  the  house  to  release  Mike 
from  his  chain  to  participate  in  the  great  rejoicing. 

There  was  no  disguising  the  fact  that  everyone  was 
pleased — everyone  except  Olive  who  went  away  to  her 
father's  study  which  had  been  left  in  her  especial  charge, 
and  locked  herself  in  for  a  morning  of  undisturbed  reading. 

A  very  could  not  feel  joyful.  The  thought  of  Piers  was 
still  with  her  continually.  She  had  heard  so  little  of  him — • 
merely  that  he  had  followed  his  grandfather  to  the  grave 
supported  by  the  old  family  solicitor  from  Wardenhurst, 
Lennox  Tudor,  and  a  miscellaneous  throng  of  neighbours; 
that  he  had  borne  himself  without  faltering,  and  had  gone 
back  to  his  solitude  with  no  visible  sign  of  suffering.  Only 
indirectly  had  she  heard  this,  and  she  yearned  to  know  more. 

She  knew  that  like  herself  he  was  practically  devoid  of 
relatives, — the  last  of  his  race, — a  figure  of  splendid  isolation 
that  would  appeal  to  many.  She  knew  that  as  a  wealthy 
and  unmarried  baronet,  he  would  be  greatly  sought  after 


3i2  The  Bars  of  Iron 

and  courted;  made  much  of  by  the  whole  county,  and  half 
London  as  well.  He  was  so  handsome,  so  romantic,  so 
altogether  eligible  in  every  way.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had 
left  that  note  of  hers  unanswered?  Did  he  think  that  now 
that  his  horizon  had  widened  the  nearer  haven  was  hardly 
worth  attaining?  Above  all,  if  he  decided  to  take  that 
which  she  had  so  spontaneouly  offered,  would  it  satisfy  him? 
Would  he  be  content  therewith?  Had  she  not  done  better 
to  have  waited  till  he  came  again  to  ask  of  her  that  which 
she  had  till  the  day  of  his  bereavement  withheld? 

It  was  useless  to  torture  herself  with  such  questionings. 
Because  of  her  promise  to  the  dead,  she  had  acted,  and  she 
could  now  but  await  the  result  of  her  action.  If  he  never 
answered, — well,  she  would  understand. 

So  passed  yet  another  day  of  silence. 

She  was  busy  with  the  household  accounts  that  night 
which  Mrs.  Lorimer  in  her  woe  had  left  in  some  confusion, 
and  they  kept  her  occupied  till  long  after  the  children  had 
gone  to  bed,  so  late  indeed  that  the  servants  also  had  retired 
and  she  was  left  alone  in  the  dining-room  to  wrestle  with  her 
difficulties. 

She  found  it  next  to  impossible  to  straighten  out  the 
muddle,  and  she  came  at  length  reluctantly  to  the  con 
clusion  that  it  was  beyond  her  powers.  Wondering  what 
the  Reverend  Stephen  would  have  said  to  such  a  crime,  she 
abstracted  a  few  shillings  from  her  own  purse  and  fraudu 
lently  made  up  the  deficit  that  had  vexed  Mrs.  Lorimer's 
soul. 

"  I  can  write  and  tell  her  now  that  it  has  come  right, "  she 
murmured  to  herself,  as  she  rose  from  the  table. 

It  was  close  upon  eleven  o'clock.  The  house  was  shut 
tered  and  silent.  The  stillness  was  intense;  when  suddenly, 
as  she  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  candle,  the  electric  bell 
pinged  through  the  quiet  of  the  night. 

She  started  and  listened.     The  thought  of  Piers  sprang 


The  Summons  313 

instinctively  to  her  mind.  Could  it  be  he?  But  surely  even 
Piers  would  not  come  to  her  at  this  hour !  It  must  be  some 
parishioner  in  need  of  help. 

She  turned  to  answer  the  summons,  but  ere  she  reached 
the  hall  it  was  repeated  twice,  with  nervous  insistence.  She 
hastened  to  withdraw  the  bolts  and  open  the  door. 

At  once  a  voice  accosted  her,  and  a  sharp  pang  of  dis 
appointment  or  anxiety,  she  knew  not  which,  went  through 
her. 

" Mrs.  Denys,  is  she  here? "  it  said.  " May  I  speak  with 
her?" 

It  was  the  unmistakable  speech  of  a  Frenchman.  By  the 
light  of  the  hall-lamp,  A  very  saw  the  plump,  anxious  face 
and  little  pointed  moustache  of  the  speaker.  He  entered 
uninvited  and  stood  before  her. 

' '  Ah !  But  you  are  Mrs .  Deny s ! "  he  exclaimed  with  relief. 
"Madame,  I  beg  that  you  will  pardon  me!  I  am  come  to 
you  in  distress  the  most  profound.  You  will  listen  to  me, 
yes?" 

He  regarded  her  with  quick  black  eyes  that  both  con 
fided  and  besought.  Avery's  heart  was  beating  in  great 
throbs,  she  felt  strangely  breathless  and  uncertain  of  herself. 

' '  Where  do  you  come  from  ? ' '  she  said.     ' '  Who  are  you  ? ' ' 

But  she  knew  the  answer  before  it  came.  "  I  am  Victor, 
madame, — Victor  Lagarde.  I  am  the  valet  of  Monsieur 
Pierre  almost  since  he  was  born.  He  calls  me  his  bonne!'1 
A  brief  smile  touched  his  worried  countenance  and  was  gone. 
"And  now  I  am  come  to  you,  madame, — not  by  his  desire. 
Mais  non,  he  does  not  know  even  that  I  am  here.  But 
because  he  is  in  great,  great  misery,  and  I  cannot  console 
him.  I  have  not  the  power.  And  he  is  all  alone — all 
alone.  And  I  fear — I  fear — "  He  broke  off  with  eloquent 
hands  outspread.  Avery  saw  the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes. 

She  closed  the  door  softly.  "What  is  it?"  she  said. 
"Tell  me  what  you  fear!" 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


He  looked  at  her,  mastering  his  emotion  with  difficulty. 
"Madame,  Monsieur  Pierre  has  sentiments  the  most  pro 
found.  He  feel  —  passionnement.  He  try  to  hide  his  senti 
ments  from  me.  But  me  —  I  know.  He  sit  alone  in  the 
great  hall  and  look  —  and  look.  He  sleep  —  never  at  all. 
He  will  not  even  go  to  bed.  And  in  the  great  hall  is  an 
escritoire,  and  in  it  a  drawer."  Victor's  voice  sank  myste 
riously.  "To-night  —  when  he  think  he  is  alone  —  he  open 
that  drawer,  and  I  see  inside.  It  hold  a  revolver,  madame. 
And  he  look  at  it,  touch  it,  and  then  shake  his  head.  But  I 
am  so  afraid  —  so  afraid.  So  —  enfin  —  in  my  trouble  I  come 
to  you.  You  have  the  influence  with  him,  is  it  not  so? 
You  have  —  the  power  to  console.  Madame  —  chere  madame 
—  will  you  not  come  and  speak  with  him  for  five  little 
minutes?  Just  to  encourage  him,  madame,  in  his  sadness; 
for  he  is  all  alone!" 

The  tears  ran  down  Victor's  troubled  face  as  he  made 
his  earnest  appeal.  He  mopped  them  openly,  making 
no  secret  of  his  distress  which  was  too  pathetic  to  be 
ludicrous. 

Avery  looked  at  him  in  dismay.  She  knew  not  what 
to  say  or  do;  and  even  as  she  stood  irresolute  the  hall-clock 
struck  eleven  through  the  silence  of  the  house. 

Victor  watched  her  anxiously.  "Madame  is  married," 
he  insinuated.  "She  can  please  herself,  no?  And  Monsieur 
Pierre  -  " 

"Wait  a  minute,  please!"  she  interrupted  gently.  "I 
want  to  think." 

She  went  to  the  unlatched  door  and  stood  with  her  face  to 
the  night.  She  felt  as  if  a  call  had  come  to  her,  but  some 
how  —  for  no  selfish  reason  —  she  hesitated  to  answer.  Some 
unknown  influence  held  her  back. 

Victor  came  softly  up  and  stood  close  to  her.  "Madame,  " 
he  said  in  a  whisper,  "I  tell  you  a  secret  —  I,  Victor,  who 
have  known  Monsieur  Pierre  from  his  infancy.  He  loves 


The  Summons  315 

you,  madame.  He  loves  you  much.  Cest  la  grande  passion 
which  comes  only  once  in  a  life — only  once." 

The  low  words  went  through  her,  seeming  to  sink  into  her 
very  heart.  She  made  a  slight,  involuntary  gesture  as  of 
wincing.  "There  was  something  in  them  that  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

She  stood  motionless  with  the  chill  night-air  blowing  in 
upon  her,  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts,  trying  to  bring 
herself  to  face  and  consider  the  matter  before  she  made  her 
decision.  But  it  was  useless.  Those  last  words  had 
awaked  within  her  a  greater  force  than  she  could  control. 
From  the  moment  of  their  utterance  she  was  driven  irresist 
ibly,  the  decision  was  no  longer  her  own. 

Piers  was  alone.  Piers  loved  her — wanted  her.  His  soul 
cried  to  hers  through  the  darkness.  She  saw  him  again 
as  in  her  dream  wrestling  with  those  cruel  iron  bars,  striving 
with  vain  agony  to  reach  her.  And  all  doubt  went  from  her 
like  a  cloud. 

She  turned  to  Victor  with  grey  eyes  shining  and  resolute. 
"Let  us  go!"  she  said. 

She  took  a  cloak  from  a  peg  in  the  hall,  lowered  the 
light,  took  the  key  from  the  lock,  and  passed  out  into  the 
dark. 

Victor  followed  her  closely,  softly  latching  the  door 
behind  him.  He  had  known  from  the  outset  that  the 
English  madame  would  not  be  able  to  resist  his  appeal. 
Was  not  Monsieur  Pierre  as  handsome  and  as  desirable 
as  though  he  had  been  a  prince  of  the  blood?  He  walked 
a  pace  behind  her,  saying  no  word,  fully  satisfied  with 
the  success  of  his  mission. 

Avery  went  with  swift  unerring  feet ;  yet  it  seemed  to  her 
afterwards  as  if  she  had  moved  in  a  dream,  for  only  the 
vaguest  impression  of  that  journey  through  the  night 
remained  with  her.  It  was  dark,  but  the  darkness  did  not 
hinder  her.  She  went  as  if  drawn  irresistibly — even  against 


316  The  Bars  of  Iron 

her  will.  At  the  back  of  her  mind  hovered  the  consciousness 
that  she  was  doing  a  rash  thing,  but  the  woman's  heart  in  it 
was  too  deeply  stirred  to  care  for  minor  considerations. 
The  picture  of  Piers  in  his  lonely  hall  hung  ever  before  her, 
drawing  her  on. 

He  had  not  sent  for  her.  She  knew  now  that  he  would 
not  send.  Yet  she  went  to  him  on  winged  feet.  For  she 
knew  that  his  need  of  her  was  great. 

There  was  no  star  in  the  sky  and  the  night-wind  moaned 
in  the  trees  as  they  went  up  the  long  chestnut  avenue 
to  the  Abbey.  The  loneliness  was  great.  It  folded  them  in 
on  every  hand.  It  seemed  to  hang  like  a  pall  about  the 
great  dim  building  massed  against  the  sky,  as  though  the 
whole  place  lay  beneath  a  spell  of  mourning. 

Emerging  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees,  she  paused 
for  the  first  time  in  uncertainty.  Victor  pressed  forward 
instantly  to  her  side. 

"We  will  enter  by  the  library,  madame.  See,  I  will  show 
you  the  way.  From  there  to  the  great  hall,  it  is  only  a  few 
steps.  And  you  will  find  him  there.  I  leave  you  alone  to 
find  him." 

He  led  her  across  a  dew-drenched  lawn  and  up  a  flight  of 
steps  to  the  door  of  a  conservatory  which  gave  inwards  at  his 
touch. 

Obedient  to  his  gesture,  Avery  entered.  Her  heart  was 
beating  hard  and  fast.  She  was  conscious  of  a  wild  mis 
giving  which  had  not  assailed  her  during  all  the  journey 
thither.  What  if  he  did  not  want  her  after  all?  What  if 
her  coming  were  unwelcome? 

Silently  Victor  piloted  her,  and  she  could  not  choose  but 
follow,  though  she  felt  sick  with  the  sudden  apprehension 
that  had  sprung  to  life  as  she  left  the  sleeping  world  outside. 
She  seemed  to  be  leaving  her  freedom,  all  she  valued,  behind 
her  as  she  entered  this  shadowy  prison.  And  all  for  what? 
Her  quivering  heart  could  find  no  answer. 


The  Summons  317 

There  was  a  heavy  scent  of  hothouse  flowers  in  the  air. 
She  almost  gasped  for  breath  in  the  exotic  fragrance  of  the 
unseen  blossoms.  A  strong  impulse  possessed  her  to  turn 
and  flee  by  the  way  she  had  come. 

"Madame!"  It  was  Victor's  voice,  low  and  entreat 
ing.  He  had  opened  an  inner  door,  and  stood  waiting 
for  her. 

Had  he  seen  her  wavering  resolution,  she  wondered? 
Was  he  trying  to  hasten  her  ere  it  should  wholly  evaporate 
— to  close  the  way  of  escape  ere  she  could  avail  herself  of 
it?  Or  was  he  anxious  solely  on  Piers'  account — lest  after 
all  she  might  arrive  too  late? 

She  could  not  determine,  but  the  urgency  of  his  whisper 
moved  her.  She  passed  him  and  entered  the  room  beyond. 

It  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  shaded  electric  lamp 
that  illumined  a  writing-table.  She  saw  that  it  was  the 
ancient  library  of  the  Abbey,  a  wonderful  apartment  which 
she  knew  to  contain  an  almost  priceless  collection  of  old 
parchments.  It  was  lined  with  bookshelves  and  had  the 
musty  smell  inseparable  from  aged  bindings. 

Victor  motioned  her  silently  to  a  door  at  the  further  end, 
but  before  either  of  them  could  reach  it  there  came  a  sudden 
footfall  on  the  other  side,  the  handle  turned  sharply,  and  it 
opened. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Victor,  and  fell  back  as  one  caught 
red-handed  in  a  crime. 

Avery  stood  quite  motionless  with  her  heart  beating  up 
against  her  throat,  and  a  tragic  sense  of  trespass  over 
whelming  her.  She  could  not  find  a  single  word  to  say,  so 
sudden  and  so  terrible  was  the  ordeal.  She  could  only 
wait  in  silence. 

Piers  stood  still  as  one  transfixed,  with  eyes  that  blazed 
sleepless  out  of  a  drawn,  pale  face;  then  at  length  with  a 
single  snap  of  the  fingers  imperiously  he  dismissed  Victor  by 
the  still  open  door. 


318  The  Bars  of  Iron 

It  closed  discreetly  upon  the  Frenchman's  exit,  and  then 
only  did  Piers  move  forward ;  he  came  to  Avery,  drew  her 
to  a  chair,  knelt  mutely  down  before  her,  and  bowed  his 
head  upon  her  lap. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
"LA  GRANDE  PASSION" 

SHE  spoke  to  him  at  last,  half-frightened  by  his  silence, 
yet  by  his  attitude  wholly  reassured.  For  he  wanted 
her  still,  of  that  no  doubt  remained.  His  hands  were  clasped 
behind  her.  He  could  have  held  her  in  his  arms;  but  he 
did  not.  He  only  knelt  there  at  her  feet  in  utter  silence, 
his  black  head  pillowed  on  her  hands. 

"Piers!"  she  said.     "Piers!    Let  me  help  you!" 

He  groaned  in  answer,  and  she  felt  a  great  shiver  run 
through  him.  She  knew  intuitively  that  he  was  battling  for 
self-control  and  dared  not  for  the  moment  show  his  face. 

"You — can't, "  he  said  at  last. 

"But  I  think  I  can,  "  she  urged  gently.  " It  isn't  so  very 
long  ago  that  you  wanted  me." 

"I  was  an  infernal  blackguard  to  tell  you  so!"  he  made 
answer. 

And  then  suddenly  his  arms  tightened  about  her,  and  he 
held  her  fast.  "That  you — you,  Avery, — should  come  to 
me — like  this!"  he  said. 

She  freed  one  of  her  hands  and  laid  it  on  his  bent  head. 
"Shall  I  tell  you  what  made  me  come,  Piers?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  silence,  but  there  was  passion  in  the 
holding  of  his  arms. 

For  a  space  he  continued  to  hold  her  so,  speaking  no  word, 
and  through  his  silence  there  came  to  her  the  quick,  fierce 
beat  of  his  heart.  Then  at  length  very  suddenly,  almost 

319 


320  The  Bars  of  Iron 

with  violence,  he  flung  his  arms  wide  and  started  to  his 
feet. 

"Avery, "  he  said,  "you  were  a  saint  to  come  to  me  like 
this.  I  shan't  forget  it  ever.  But  there's  nothing — nothing 
you  can  do,  except  leave  me  to  my  own  devices.  It's  only 
just  at  first,  you  know,  that  the  loneliness  seems  so — 
awful."  His  voice  shook  unexpectedly;  he  swung  round 
away  from  her  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room. 

He  came  back  almost  immediately  and  stood  before  her. 
"Victor  was  a  criminal  fool  to  bring  you  here.  He  meant 
well  though.  He  always  does.  That  note  of  yours — I 
ought  to  have  answered  it.  I  was  just  coming  in  here 
to  do  so.  I  shouldn't  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long,  but 
somehow — somehow — "  Again,  in  spite  of  him,  his  voice 
quivered.  He  turned  sharply  and  walked  to  the  fireplace, 
leaned  his  arms  upon  it,  and  stood  so,  his  back  to  her,  his 
head  bent. 

"It  was  so  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  went  on  after  a 
moment.  "You  always  have  been — awfully  good.  My 
grandfather  realized  that,  you  know.  I  think  he  told  you  so, 
didn't  he?  He  wasn't  really  sorry  that  I  wouldn't  marry 
Ina  Rose.  By  the  way,  she  is  engaged  to  Dick  Guyes 
already,  so  there  was  not  much  damage  done  in  that  direc 
tion.  I  told  you  it  was  nothing  but  a  game,  didn't  I?  You 
didn't  quite  believe  me,  what?" 

It  came  to  her  that  he  was  talking  to  gain  time,  that  he 
was  trying  to  muster  strength  to  give  the  lie  to  the  passion 
that  had  throbbed  in  the  holding  of  his  arms,  that  for  some 
reason  he  deemed  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  mask  his  feel 
ings  and  hide  from  her  the  misery  that  had  driven  Victor  in 
search  of  her. 

She  rose  quietly  and  moved  across  the  room  till  she  stood 
beside  him.  "Piers,"  she  said,  "tell  me  what  is  wrong!" 

He  stiffened  at  her  approach,  straightened  himself,  faced 
her.  "Avery,"  he  said,  "do  you  know,  dear,  it  would  be 


"  La  Grande  Passion  "^  321 

better  if  you  went  straight  back  again?  I  hate  to  say  it. 
It  was  so  dear  of  you,  so — so — great  of  you  to  come.  But — • 
no,  there's  nothing  wrong, — nothing  that  is,  that  hasn't 
been  wrong  for  ages.  Fact  is,  I'm  not  fit  to  speak  to  you, 
never  have  been;  far  less  make  love  to  you.  And  I  was  a 
cur  and  a  brute  to  do  it.  I've  had  a  bit  of  a  shake-up 
lately.  It's  made  me  feel  my  responsibilities,  see  things  as 
they  are.  I've  got  an  awful  lot  to  see  to  just  now.  I'm 
going  to  work  mighty  hard.  I  mustn't  think  of — other 
things. " 

He  stopped.  He  was  looking  at  her,  looking  at  her,  with 
the  red  fire  of  passion  kindling  in  his  eyes,  a  gleam  so  fierce 
and  so  insistent  that  she  was  forced  to  lower  her  own.  It 
was  as  if  his  soul  cried  out  to  her  all  that  he  restrained  his 
lips  from  uttering. 

He  saw  her  instinctive  avoidance  of  his  gaze,  and  turned 
away  from  her,  leaning  again  upon  the  mantelpiece  as  if 
spent. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Avery.  I'm  so  dog-tired,  and  I  can't 
sleep.  I'm  horribly  sorry,  but  I'm  nothing  but  a  brute- 
beast  to-night.  Really — really — you  had  better  go." 

There  was  desperation  in  his  voice.  He  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  arms,  and  she  saw  that  his  hands  were  clenched. 

But  she  could  not  leave  him  so.  That  inner  urging  that 
had  impelled  her  thither  warned  her  to  remain,  even  against 
her  own  judgment,  even  against  her  will.  The  memory  of 
Victor's  fears  came  back  to  her.  She  could  not  turn  and 

go- 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  speaking  very  gently,  "do  you 
think  I  don't  know  that  you  are  miserable,  lonely,  wretched? 
That  is  why  I  am  here!" 

"God  knows  how  lonely!"  he  whispered. 

Her  heart  stirred  within  her  at  the  desolation  of  the  words. 
"Nearly  all  of  us  go  through  it  some  time, "  she  said  gently. 
"And  if  there  isn't  a  friend  to  stand  by,  it's  very  hard  to 


322  The  Bars  of  Iron 

bear.  That  is  the  part  I  want  to  play — if  you  will  let  me. 
Won't  you  treat  me  as  a  friend?" 

But  Piers  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  With  his  head  still 
upon  his  arms  he  stood  silent. 

She  drew  nearer  to  him.  "Piers,  I  think  I  understand. 
I  think  you  are  a  little  afraid  of  going  too  far,  of — of — " 
her  voice  faltered  a  little  in  spite  of  her —  "of  hurting  my 
feelings.  Is  that  it?  Because, — my  dear, — you  needn't 
be  afraid  any  longer.  If  you  really  think  I  can  make  you 
happy,  I  am  willing — quite  willing — to  try." 

The  words  were  spoken,  and  with  them  she  offered  all  she 
had,  freely,  generously,  with  a  quick  love  that  was  greater 
possibly  than  even  she  realized. 

She  was  standing  close  to  him  waiting  for  him  to  turn 
and  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  had  so  nearly  clasped  her 
once  against  her  will.  But  seconds  passed  and  he  did  not 
move,  and  a  cold  foreboding  began  to  knock  at  her  heart  lest 
after  all — lest  after  all — his  love  for  her  had  waned. 

He  stirred  at  last,  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  turning 
from  him,  stretched  out  a  groping  hand  that  found  and 
drew  her  to  his  side.  But  still  he  did  not  look  at  her  or  so 
much  as  raise  his  head. 

He  spoke  after  a  moment  in  a  choked  voice  that  seemed 
to  be  wrung  from  him  by  sheer  physical  torture.  "Avery, 
don't — don't  tempt  me.  I — daren't!" 

The  anguish  of  the  words  went  through  her,  banishing 
all  thought  of  anything  else.  Very  suddenly  she  knew  that 
he  was  fighting  a  desperate  battle  for  her  sake,  that  he  was 
striving  with  all  the  strength  that  was  in  him  to  set  her 
happiness  before  his  own.  And  something  that  was  greater 
than  pity  entered  into  her  with  the  knowledge,  something 
so  great  as  to  be  all-possessing,  compelling  her  to  instant 
action. 

She  slipped  her  arm  about  his  bent  shoulders  with  a 
gesture  of  infinite  tenderness.  "Piers — dear  boy,  what  is 


"La  Grande  Passion"  323 

it?"  she  said  softly.  "Is  there  some  trouble  in  your 
past — something  you  can't  bear  to  speak  of?  Remember,  I 
am  not  a  girl,  I  may  understand — some  things — better 
than  you  think." 

She  felt  his  hold  upon  her  tighten  almost  convulsively, 
but  for  a  while  he  made  no  answer. 

Then  at  length  slowly  he  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  her.  "Do  you — really — think  the  past  matters?"  he 
said. 

She  met  his  eyes  with  their  misery  and  their  longing,  and 
a  tremor  of  uncertainty  went  through  her. 

"Tell  me,  Avery!"  he  insisted.  "If  you  felt  yourself 
able  to  get  away  from  old  burdens,  and  if — if  there  was  no 
earthly  reason  why  they  should  hamper  your  future — " 
He  broke  off,  and  again  his  arm  tightened.  "It's  damnable 
that  they  should!"  he  muttered  savagely. 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you,"  she  said. 
"Are — you  afraid  to  be  open  with  me?  Do  you  think  I 
shouldn't  understand?" 

His  eyes  fell  abruptly.  "I  am  quite  sure,"  he  said, 
"  that  it  would  be  easier  for  me  to  give  you  up. "  And  with 
that  he  suddenly  set  her  free  and  stood  up  before  her 
straight  and  stiff.  "Let  me  see  you  home!"  he  said. 

They  faced  one  another  in  the  dimness,  and  Avery  marked 
afresh  the  weariness  of  his  face.  He  looked  like  a  man  who 
had  come  through  many  days  and  nights  of  suffering. 

He  glanced  up  as  she  did  not  speak.  "Shall  we  go?" 
he  said. 

But  Avery  stood  hesitating,  asking  herself  if  this  could 
indeed  be  the  end,  if  the  impulse  that  had  drawn  her  thither 
had  been  after  all  a  mistaken  one,  or  if  even  yet  it  might 
not  carry  her  further  than  she  had  ever  thought  to  go. 

He  turned  towards  the  conservatory-door  by  which  she 
had  entered,  and  quietly  opened  it.  A  soft  wind  blew 
through  to  her.  laden  with  the  scent  of  the  wet  earth  and  a 


324  The  Bars  of  Iron 

thousand  opening  buds.  It  seemed  to  carry  the  promise 
of  eternal  hope  on  unseen  wings  straight  to  her  heart. 

Slowly  she  followed  him  across  the  room,  reached  him, 
passed  through  into  the  scented  darkness.  A  few  steps 
more  and  she  would  have  been  in  the  open  air,  but  she  was 
uncertain  of  the  way.  The  place  was  too  dim  for  her  to  see 
it.  She  paused  for  him  to  guide  her. 

The  door  closed  behind  her;  she  heard  it  softly  swing 
on  its  hinges,  and  then  came  his  light  footfall  close  to  her. 

"Straight  on!"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded  oddly  cold 
and  constrained.  "There  are  three  steps  at  the  end.  Be 
careful  how  you  go !  Perhaps  you  would  rather  wait  while 
I  fetch  alight." 

His  tone  hurt  her  subtly,  wounding  her  more  deeply  than 
she  had  realized  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  wound. 

She  moved  forward  blindly  with  a  strangled  sensation  at 
her  throat  and  a  rush  of  hot  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  had 
never  dreamed  that  Piers — the  warm-hearted,  the  eager — • 
had  it  in  him  to  treat  her  so. 

The  instinct  to  escape  awoke  within  her.  She  quickened 
her  steps  and  reached  the  further  door.  Before  her  lay  the 
open  night,  immense  and  quiet  and  very  dark.  She  pressed 
forward,  hoping  he  would  not  follow,  longing  only  for 
solitude  and  silence. 

But  in  her  agitation  she  forgot  his  warning,  forgot  to 
tread  warily,  and  missed  her  footing  on  the  steps.  She 
slipped  with  a  sharp  exclamation  and  went  down,  catching 
vainly  at  the  door-post  to  save  herself. 

Piers  exclaimed  also,  and  sprang  forward.  His  arms 
were  about  her  before  she  reached  the  ground.  He  lifted 
her  bodily  ere  she  could  recover  her  balance;  and  suddenly 
she  knew  that  with  the  touch  of  her  the  fire  of  his  passion 
had  burst  into  scorching  flame — knew  herself  powerless — a 
woman  in  the  hold  of  her  captor. 

For  he  held  her  so  fast  that  she  gasped  for  breath,  ani 


"  La  Grande  Passion  "  325 

with  her  head  pressed  back  against  his  shoulder,  he  kissed 
her  on  the  lips,  fiercely,  violently,  hungrily — kissed  her 
eyes,  her  hair,  and  again  her  lips,  sealing  them  closely  with 
his  own,  making  protest  impossible.  Neither  could  she 
resist  him,  for  he  held  her  gathered  up  against  his  heart, 
bearing  her  whole  weight  with  a  strength  that  mocked  her 
weakness,  compelling  her  to  lie  at  his  mercy  while  the  wild 
storm  of  his  passion  swept  on  its  way. 

She  was  as  one  caught  in  the  molten  stream  of  a  volcano, 
and  carried  by  the  fiery  current  that  seethed  all  about  her, 
consuming  her  with  its  heat. 

Once  when  his  lips  left  hers  she  tried  to  whisper  his  name, 
to  call  him  back  from  his  madness;  but  her  voice  was  gone. 
She  could  only  gasp  and  gasp  till  with  an  odd,  half-savage 
laugh  he  silenced  her  again  with  those  burning  kisses  that 
made  her  feel  that  he  had  stormed  his  way  to  the  last 
and  inner  sanctuary  of  her  soul,  depriving  her  even  of  the 
right  to  dispute  his  overwhelming  possession. 

Later  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  been  near  to 
fainting,  for  though  she  knew  that  he  bore  her  inwards  from 
the  open  door  she  could  not  so  much  as  raise  a  hand  in 
protest.  She  was  utterly  spent  and  almost  beyond  caring, 
so  complete  had  been  his  conquest.  When  he  set  her  on  her 
feet  she  tottered,  clinging  to  him  nervelessly  for  support. 

He  kept  his  arm  about  her,  but  his  hold  was  no  longer 
insistent.  She  was  aware  of  his  passion  still;  it  seemed  to 
play  around  her  like  a  lambent  flame;  but  the  first  fierce 
flare  was  past.  He  spoke  to  her  at  last  in  a  voice  that  was 
low  but  not  without  the  arrogance  of  the  conqueror. 

"Are  you  very  angry  with  me,  I  wonder?" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  for  still  she  could  not. 

He  went  on,  a  vein  of  recklessness  running  through  his 
speech.  "It  won't  make  any  difference  if  you  are.  Do 
you  understand?  I've  tried  to  let  you  go,  but  I  can't. 
I  must  have  you  or  die. " 


326  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  tornado  of 
his  passion  were  sweeping  back  again;  but,  curiously,  he 
checked  it. 

"That's  how  it  is  with  me,  A  very, "  he  said.  "The 
fates  have  played  a  ghastly  joke  on  me,  but  you  are  mine  in 
spite  of  it.  You  came  to  tell  me  so;  didn't  you?" 

Was  there  a  note  of  pleading  in  his  voice?  She  fancied  so; 
but  still  she  could  not  speak  in  answer.  She  leaned  against 
him  with  every  pulse  throbbing.  She  dared  not  turn  her 
face  to  his. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Avery?"  he  said,  and  this  time 
surely  she  heard  a  faint  echo  of  that  boyish  humour  that  had 
first  won  her.  "Because  it's  all  right,  dear,"  he  told  her 
softly.  "I've  got  myself  in  hand  now.  You  know,  I 
couldn't  hold  3^ou  in  my  arms  just  then  and  not — not 
kiss  you.  You  don't  hate  me  for  it,  do  you?  You — 
understand?" 

Yes,  she  understood.  Yet  she  felt  as  if  he  had  raised  a 
barrier  between  them  which  nothing  could  ever  take  away. 
She  tried  to  ignore  it,  but  could  not.  The  glaring  fact 
that  he  had  not  cared  how  much,  or  how  little  she  had 
desired  those  savage  kisses  of  his  had  begun  already  to 
torment  her,  and  she  knew  that  she  would  carry  the  scorch 
ing  memory  of  those  moments  with  her  for  the  rest  of  her 
life. 

She  drew  herself  slowly  from  him.  "I  am  going  now," 
she  said. 

He  put  out  a  hand  that  trembled  and  laid  it  on  her 
shoulder.  "If  I  will  let  you  go,  Avery!"  he  said,  and  she 
was  again  aware  of  the  leaping  of  the  flame  that  had  scarcely 
died  down  but  a  moment  before. 

She  straightened  herself  and  resolutely  faced  him.  "  I  am 
going,  Piers,  "  she  said. 

His  hand  tightened  sharply.  He  caught  his  breath  for  a 
few  tense  seconds.  Then  very  slowly  his  hold  relaxed;  his 


"La  Grande  Passion"  327 

hand  fell.  "You  will  let  me  see  you  back, "  he  said,  and  she 
knew  by  his  voice  that  he  was  putting  strong  force  upon 
himself. 

She  turned.     "No.     I  will  go  alone." 

He  did  not  move.     "Please,  A  very!"  he  said. 

Her  heart  gave  a  quick  throb  at  the  low-spoken  words. 
She  paused  almost  involuntarily,  realizing  with  a  great  rush 
of  thankfulness  that  he  would  not  stir  a  step  to  follow  unless 
she  gave  him  leave. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  irresolute.  Then:  "Come  if 
you  wish!"  she  said. 

She  heard  him  move,  and  herself  passed  on,  descending 
the  steps  into  the  dewy  garden  with  again  that  odd  feeling 
of  unreality,  almost  as  if  she  walked  in  a  dream. 

He  came  behind  her,  silent  as  a  shadow,  and  not  till  she 
deliberately  waited  for  him  did  he  overtake  and  walk  beside 
her. 

No  words  passed  between  them  as  they  went.  They 
seemed  to  move  through  a  world  of  shadows, — a  spell 
bound,  waiting  world.  And  gradually,  as  if  a  soothing 
hand  had  been  laid  upon  her,  Avery  felt  the  wild  tumult 
at  her  heart  subside.  She  remembered  that  he  had  re 
frained  himself  almost  at  her  first  word,  and  slowly  her 
confidence  came  back.  He  had  appealed  to  her  to  under 
stand,  and  she  could  not  let  his  appeal  go  wholly  un 
answered. 

As  they  passed  at  length  through  the  gate  that  led  into 
the  Vicarage  lane,  she  spoke.  "Piers,  I  am  not  angry." 

"Aren't  you?"  he  said,  and  by  the  eager  relief  of  his 
voice  she  knew  that  her  silence  had  been  hard  to  bear. 

She  put  out  a  hand  to  him  as  they  walked.  "But,  Piers, 
that — is  not  the  way  to  make  me  love  you.  " 

"I  know — I  know,"  he  said  quickly;  and  then  haltingly: 
"I've  been — so  beastly  lonely,  Avery.  Make  allowances 
for  me — forgive  me!" 


328  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  had  not  taken  her  hand;  she  slipped  it  into  his.  "1 
do,"  she  said  simply.  She  felt  his  fingers  close  tensely, 
but  in  a  moment  they  opened  again  and  set  her  free. 

He  did  not  utter  another  word,  merely  walked  on  beside 
her  till  they  reached  the  Vicarage  gate.,  She  thought  he 
would  have  left  her  there,  but  he  did  not.  They  went  up 
the  drive  together  to  the  porch. 

From  his  kennel  at  the  side  of  the  house  Mike  barked 
a  sharp  challenge  that  turned  into  an  unmistakable  note 
of  welcome  as  they  drew  near.  Avery  silenced  him  with 
a  reassuring  word. 

She  found  the  key,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  porch  she 
began  to  fumble  for  the  lock. 

Piers  stooped.     "Let  me!" 

She  gave  him  the  key,  and  as  she  stood  up  again  she 
noted  the  brightness  of  the  fanlight  over  the  floor.  She 
thought  that  she  had  lowered  the  light  at  leaving;  she  had 
certainly  intended  to  do  so. 

Very  softly  Piers  opened  the  door.  It  swung  noiselessly 
back  upon  its  hinges,  and  the  full  light  smote  upon  them. 

In  the  same  instant  a  slim,  white  figure  came  calmly 
forward  through  the  hall  and  stopped  beneath  the  lamp. 

Olive  Lorimer,  pale,  severe,  with  fixed,  accusing  eyes, 
stood  confronting  them. 

"Mrs.  Denys!"  she  said,  in  accents  of  frozen   surprise. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE    SWORD    OF    DAMOCLES 

THE  encounter  was  so  amazing,  so  utterly  unlocked 
for,  that  Avery  had  a  moment  of  downright  con 
sternation.  The  child's  whole  air  and  expression  were  so 
exactly  reminiscent  of  her  father  that  she  almost  felt  as  if 
she  stood  before  the  Vicar  himself — a  culprit  caught  in  a 
guilty  act. 

She  looked  at  Olive  without  words,  and  Olive  looked 
straight  back  at  her  with  that  withering  look  of  the  righteous 
condemning  the  ungodly  which  so  often  regarded  a  dumb 
but  rebellious  congregation  through  the  Vicar's  stern  eyes. 

Piers,  however,  was  not  fashioned  upon  timid  lines, 
and  he  stepped  into  the  hall  without  the  faintest  sign  of 
embarrassment. 

"Hullo,  little  girl!"  he  said.     "Why  aren't  you  in  bed?" 

The  accusing  eyes  turned  upon  him.  Olive  seemed  to 
swell  with  indignation.  "  I  was  in  bed  long  ago, "  she  made 
answer,  still  in  those  frozen  tones.  "May  I  ask  what  you 
are  doing  here,  Mr.  Evesham?" 

" I ? "  said  Piers  jauntily.     "Now  what  do  you  suppose? " 

"I  cannot  imagine, "  the  child  said. 

"Not  really?"  said  Piers.  "Well,  perhaps  when  you 
are  a  little  older  your  imagination  will  develop.  In  the 
meantime,  if  you  are  a  wise  little  girl,  you  will  run  back  to 
bed  and  leave  your  elders  to  settle  their  own  affairs." 

Olive  drew  herself  up  with  dignity.  "It  is  not  my 

329 


33°  The  Bars  of  Iron 

intention  to  go  so  long  as  you  are  in  the  house,"  she  said 
with  great  distinctness. 

"Indeed!"  said  Piers.     "And  why  not?" 

He  spoke  with  the  utmost  quietness,  but  Avery  caught 
the  faintest  tremor  in  his  voice  that  warned  her  that  Olive 
was  treading  dangerous  ground. 

She  hastened  to  intervene.  "But  of  course  you  are 
going  now,"  she  said  to  him.  "It  is  bedtime  for  us  all. 
Good-night!  And  thank  you  for  walking  home  with  me!" 

Her  own  tone  was  perfectly  normal.  She  turned  to  him 
with  outstretched  hand,  but  he  put  it  gently  aside. 

" One  minute ! "  he  said.  "I  should  like  an  answer  to  my 
question  first.  Why  are  you  so  determined  to  see  me  out  of 
the  house?" 

He  looked  straight  at  Olive  as  he  spoke,  no  longer 
careless  of  mien,  but  implacable  as  granite. 

Olive,  however,  was  wholly  undismayed.  She  was  the 
only  one  of  the  Vicar's  children  who  had  never  had  cause  to 
feel  a  twinge  of  fear.  "You  had  better  ask  yourself  that 
question,"  she  said,  in  her  cool  young  treble.  "You  pro 
bably  know  the  answer  better  than  I  do. " 

Piers'  expression  changed.  For  a  single  instant  he  looked 
furious,  but  he  mastered  himself  almost  immediately. 
"It's  a  lucky  thing  for  you  that  you  are  not  my  little 
girl,"  he  observed  grimly.  "If  you  were,  you  should  have 
the  slapping  of  your  life  to-night.  As  it  is, — well,  you  have 
asked  me  for  an  explanation  of  my  presence  here,  and  you 
shall  have  one.  I  am  here  in  the  capacity  of  escort  to  Mrs. 
Denys.  Have  you  any  fault  to  find  with  that?" 

Olive  returned  his  look  steadily  with  her  cold  grey  eyes 
while  she  considered  his  words.  She  seemed  momentarily 
at  a  loss  for  an  answer,  but  Piers'  first  remarks  were  scarcely 
of  a  character  to  secure  goodwill  or  allay  suspicion.  She 
rapidly  made  up  her  mind. 

"I  shall  tell    Miss  Whalley  in   the  morning,"  she  said. 


The  Sword  of  Damocles  331 

"  My  father  said  I  was  to  go  to  her  if  anything  went  wrong." 
She  added,  with  a  malevolent  glance  towards  Avery,  "I  sup 
pose  you  know  that  Mrs.  Denys  is  under  notice  to  leave  at 
the  end  of  her  month?" 

Piers  glanced  at  Avery  too — a  glance  of  swift  interro 
gation.  She  nodded  very  slightly  in  answer. 

He  looked  again  at  Olive  with  eyes  that  gleamed  in  a 
fashion  that  few  could  have  met  without  quailing. 

' '  Is  she  indeed  ?  "  he  said.  ' '  I  venture  to  predict  that  she 
will  leave  before  then.  If  you  are  anxious  to  impart  news 
to  Miss  Whalley,  you  may  tell  her  also  that  Mrs.  Denys 
is  going  to  be  my  wife,  and  that  the  marriage  will  take 
place — "  he  looked  at  Avery  again  and  all  the  hardness 
went  out  of  his  face — "just  as  soon  as  she  will  permit." 

Dead  silence,  folio  wed  the  announcement.  Avery's  face 
was  pale,  but  there  was  a  faint  smile  at  her  lips.  She  met 
Piers'  look  without  a  tremor.  She  even  drew  slightly  nearer 
to  him;  and  he,  instantly  responding,  slipped  a  swift  hand 
through  her  arm. 

Olive,  sternly  judicial,  stood  regarding  them  in  silence, 
for  perhaps  a  score  of  seconds.  And  then,  still  undismayed, 
she  withdrew  her  forces  in  good  order  from  the  field. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  one  closing  a 
discussion,  "there  is  nothing  further  to  be  said.  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Denys  wishes  to  be  Lady  Evesham.  My  father  told 
me  she  was  an  adventuress.  I  see  he  was  right. " 

She  went  away  with  this  parting  shot,  stepping  high  and 
holding  her  head  poised  loftily — an  absurd  parody  of  the 
Vicar  in  his  most  clerical  moments. 

Avery  gave  a  little  hysterical  gasp  of  laughter  as  she 
passed  out  of  sight. 

Piers'  arm  was  about  her  in  a  moment.  He  held  her 
against  his  heart.  "What  a  charming  child,  what?"  he 
murmured. 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.     "I  think  myself  she 


332  The  Bars  of  Iron 

was  in  the  right, "  she  said,  still  half  laughing.  "  Piers,  you 
must  go." 

"In  a  moment.  Let  me  hear  from  your  own  dear  lips 
first  that  you  are  not — not  angry!"  He  spoke  the  words 
softly  into  her  ear.  There  was  only  tenderness  in  the 
holding  of  his  arms. 

"I  am  not,"  she  whispered  back. 

"Nor  sorry?"  urged  Piers. 

She  turned  her  face  a  little  towards  him.  "  No,  dear,  not 
a  bit  sorry;  glad!" 

He  held  her  more  closely  but  with  reverence.  "Avery, 
you  don't — love  me,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  I  do!"  she  said. 

"There  can't  be  any  'of  course'  about  it,"  he  declared 
almost  fiercely.  "  I've  been  a  positive  brute  to  you.  Avery 
• — Avery,  I'll  never  be  a  brute  to  you  again. " 

And  there  he  stopped,  for  her  arms  were  suddenly  about 
his  neck,  her  lips  raised  in  utter  surrender  to  his. 

"Oh,  Piers, "  she  said  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  him  through 
and  through,  "do  you  think  I  would  have  less  of  your  love 
— even  if  it  hurts  me?  It  is  the  greatest  thing  that  has 
ever  come  into  my  life. " 

He  held  her  head  between  his  hands  and  looked  into  her 
eyes  of  perfect  trust.  "Avery !  Avery ! "  he  said. 

"  I  mean  it ! "  she  told  him  earnestly.  "  I  have  been  draw 
ing  nearer  to  you  all  the  while — in  spite  of  myself — though 
I  tried  so  hard  to  hold  back.  Piers,  my  past  life  is  a  dream, 
and  this — this  is  the  awaking.  You  asked  me — a  long 
while  ago — if  the  past  mattered.  I  couldn't  answer  you 
then.  I  was  still  half-asleep.  But  now — now  you  have 
worked  the  miracle — my  heart  is  awake,  dear,  and  I  will 
answer  you.  The  past  is  nothing  to  you  or  me.  It  matters 
• — not — one — jot ! " 

Her  words  throbbed  into  the  silence  of  his  kiss.  He  held 
her  long  and  closely.  Once — twice — he  tried  to  speak  to 


The  Sword  of  Damocles  333 

her  and  failed.  In  the  end  he  gave  himself  up  mutely  to 
the  rapture  of  her  arms.  But  his  own  wild  passion  had  sunk 
below  the  surface.  He  sought  no  more  than  she  offered. 

"  Say  good-bye  to  me  now! "  she  whispered  at  length ;  and 
he  kissed  her  again  closely,  lingeringly,  and  let  her  go. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  as  he  passed  into  the  night,  and 
his  last  sight  of  her  was  thus,  silhouetted  against  the  dark 
ness,  a  tall,  gracious  figure,  bending  forward  to  discern  him 
in  the  dimness. 

He  went  back  to  his  lonely  home,  back  to  the  echoing 
emptiness,  the  listening  dark.  He  entered  again  the  great 
hall  where  Sir  Beverley  had  been  wont  to  sit  and  wait  for 
him. 

Victor  was  on  the  watch.  He  glided  apologetically  for 
ward  with  shining,  observant  eyes  upon  his  young  master's 
weary  face. 

"Monsieur  Pierre!"  he  said  insinuatingly. 

Piers  looked  at  him  heavily.     "Well?" 

"I  have  put  some  refreshment  for  you  in  the  dining- 
room.  It  is  more — more  comfortable,"  said  Victor,  gently 
indicating  the  open  door.  "Will  you  not — when  you  have 
eaten — go  to  bed,  mon  cher,  et  peut-etre  dormir?" 

Very  wistfully  the  little  man  proffered  his  suggestion. 
His  eyes  followed  Piers'  movements  with  the  dumb  worship 
of  an  animal. 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  go  to  bed, "  said  Piers. 

He  turned  towards  the  dining-room,  and  entered.  There 
was  no  elation  in  his  step;  rather  he  walked  as  a  man  who 
carries  a  heavy  burden,  and  Victor  marked  the  fact  with 
eyes  of  keen  anxiety. 

He  followed  him  in  and  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine, 
setting  it  before  him  with  a  professional  adroitness  that 
did  not  conceal  his  solicitude. 

Piers  picked  up  the  glass  almost  mechanically,  and  in 
doing  so  caught  sight  of  some  letters  lying  on  the  table. 


334  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Oh,   damn!"   he  said   wearily.    "How  many   more?" 

There  were  bundles  of  them  on  the  study  writing-table. 
They  poured  in  by  every  post. 

Victor  groaned  commiseratingly.  "I  will  take  them 
away,  yes?"  he  suggested.  "You  will  read  them  in  the 
morning — when  you  have  slept. " 

"Yes,  take  'em  away!"  said  Piers.  "Stay  a  minute! 
What's  that  top  one?  I'll  look  at  that. " 

He  took  up  the  envelope.  It  was  addressed  in  a  man's 
square,  firm  writing  to  "Piers  Evesham,  Esq.,  Rodding 
Abbey." 

"Someone  who  doesn't  know,"  murmured  Piers,  and  slit 
it  open  with  a  sense  of  relief.  Some  of  the  letters  of  con 
dolence  that  he  had  received  had  been  as  salt  rubbed  into 
a  wound. 

He  took  out  the  letter  and  glanced  at  the  signature: 
"  Edmund  Crowther!" 

Suddenly  a  veil  seemed  to  be  drawn  across  his  eyes.  He 
looked  up  with  a  sharp,  startled  movement,  and  through  a 
floating  mist  he  saw  his  grandmother's  baffling  smile  from 
the  canvas  on  the  wall.  The  blood  was  singing  in  his  ears. 
He  clenched  his  hands  involuntarily.  Crowther!  He  had 
forgotten  Crowther!  And  Crowther  knew — how  much? 

But  he  had  Crowther's  promise  of  secrecy,  so — after  all 
— what  had  he  to  fear?  Nothing — nothing!  Yet  he  felt 
as  if  a  devil  were  laughing  somewhere  in  the  room.  They 
had  caught  him,  they  had  caught  him,  there  at  the  very 
gates  of  deliverance.  They  were  dragging  him  back  to  his 
place  of  torment.  He  could  hear  the  clanking  of  the  chains 
which  he  had  so  nearly  burst  asunder,  could  feel  them 
coiling  cold  about  his  heart.  For  he  also  was  bound  by  a 
promise,  the  keeping  of  which  meant  utter  destruction  to  all 
he  held  good  in  life. 

And  not  that  alone.  It  meant  the  rending  in  pieces  of 
that  which  was  holy,  the  trampling  into  the  earth  of  that 


The  Sword  of  Damocles  335 

sacred  gift  which  had  only  now  been  bestowed  upon  him. 
It  meant  the  breaking  of  a  woman's  heart — that  of  the  only 
woman  in  the  world,  the  woman  he  worshipped,  body  and 
soul,  the  woman  who  in  spite  of  herself  had  come  to  love 
him  also. 

He  flung  up  his  arms  with  a  wild  gesture.  The  torment 
was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

"No!"  he  cried.  "No!"  And  it  was  as  if  he  cried  out 
of  the  midst  of  a  burning,  fiery  furnace.  "I'm  damned — 
I'm  damned  if  I  will!" 

"Monsieur  Pierre  I  Monsieur  Pierre  I "  It  was  Victor's 
voice  beside  him,  full  of  anxious  remonstrance. 

He  looked  round  with  dazed  eyes.  His  arms  fell  to  his 
sides.  "All  right,  my  good  Victor;  I'm  not  mad,"  he  said. 
"Don't  be  scared!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  chap  called 
Damocles?  He's  an  ancestor  of  mine,  and  history  has  a 
funny  fashion  of  repeating  itself.  But  there'll  be  a  differ 
ence  this  time  all  the  same.  He  couldn't  eat  his  dinner 
for  fear  of  a  naked  sword  falling  on  his  head.  But  I'm 
going  to  eat  mine — whatever  happens;  and  enjoy  it  too." 

He  raised  his  glass  aloft  with  a  reckless  laugh.  His 
eyes  sought  those  of  the  woman  on  the  wall  with  a  sparkle 
of  bitter  humour.  He  made  her  a  brief,  defiant  bow. 

"And  you,  madam,  may  look  on — and  smile!"  he  said. 

He  drank  the  wine  without  tasting  it  and  swung  round  to 
depart.  And  again,  as  he  went,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
somewhere  near  at  hand — possibly  in  his  own  soul — a  devil 
laughed  and  gibed. 

Yet  when  he  lay  down  at  length,  he  slept  for  many  hours 
in  dreamless,  absolute  repose — as  a  voyager  who  after  long 
buffeting  with  wind  and  tide  has  come  at  last  into  the  quiet 
haven  of  his  desire. 


PART  II 

THE  PLACE  OF  TORMENT 


337 


CHAPTER  I 

DEAD   SEA   FRUIT 

r  DOUBT  if  the  County  will  call,"  said  Miss  Whalley, 
"unless  the  fact  that  Sir  Piers  is  to  stand  for  the  di 
vision  weighs  with  them.  And  Colonel  Rose's  patronage  may 
prove  an  added  inducement.  He  probably  knows  that  the 
young  man  has  simply  married  this  Mrs.  Denysoutof  pique, 
since  his  own  charming  daughter  would  have  none  of  him. 
I  must  say  that  personally  I  am  not  surprised  that  Miss 
Rose  should  prefer  marriage  with  a  man  of  such  sterling 
worth  as  Mr.  Guyes.  Sir  Piers  may  be  extremely  handsome 
and  fascinating ;  but  no  man  with  those  eyes  could  possibly 
make  a  good  husband.  I  hear  it  is  to  be  a  very  grand 
affair  indeed,  dear  Mrs.  Lorimer, — far  preferable  in  my 
opinion  to  the  hole-in-a-corner  sort  of  ceremony  that  took 
place  this  morning." 

"  They  both  of  them  wished  it  to  be  as  quiet  as  possible, " 
murmured  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "She  being  a  widow  and  he — 
poor  lad! — in  such  deep  mourning." 

"Indecent  haste,  I  call  it,"  pronounced  Miss  Whalley 
severely,  "with  the  earth  still  fresh  on  his  poor  dear  grand 
father's  grave!  A  May  wedding  too!  Most  unsuitable!" 

"He  said  he  was  so  lonely,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Lorimer 
gently.  "And  after  all  it  was  what  his  grandfather  wished, 
— so  he  told  me." 

Miss  Whalley  gave  a  high-bred  species  of  snort.  "My 
dear  Mrs.  Lorimer,  that  young  man  would  tell  you  anything. 

339 


34°  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Why,  his  grandfather  was  an  inveterate  woman-hater,  as  all 
the  world  knows. " 

"I  know, "  agreed  Mrs.  Lorimer.  " That  was  really  what 
made  it  so  remarkable.  I  assure  you,  Miss  Whalley, — 
Piers  came  to  me  only  last  night  and  told  me  with  tears 
in  his  eyes — that  just  at  the  last  poor  Sir  Beverley  said  to 
him:  'I  believe  you've  pitched  on  the  right  woman  after 
all,  lad.  Anyway,  she  cares  for  you — more  than  ordinal y. 
Marry  her  as  quick  as  you  can — and  my  blessing  on  you 
both!'  They  were  almost  the  last  words  he  spoke,"  said 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  wiping  her  own  eyes.  "I  thought  it  was  so 
dear  of  Piers  to  tell  me. " 

"No  doubt,"  sniffed  Miss  Whalley.  "He  is  naturally 
anxious  to  secure  your  goodwill.  But  I  wonder  very  much 
what  point  of  view  the  dear  Vicar  takes  of  the  matter.  If  I 
mistake  not,  he  took  Mrs.  Denys's  measure  some  time  ago. " 

"Did  he?"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer  vaguely. 

Miss  Whalley  looked  annoyed.  The  Vicar's  wife  obvi 
ously  lacked  sufficient  backbone  to  quarrel  on  the  sub 
ject.  She  was  wont  to  say  that  she  detested  invertebrate 
women. 

"I  think  the  Vicar  was  not  altogether  surprised,"  Mrs. 
Lorimer  went  on,  in  her  gentle,  conversational  way.  "You 
see,  Piers  had  been  somewhat  assiduous  for  some  time.  I 
myself,  however,  did  not  fancy  that  dear  A  very  wished 
to  encourage  him." 

"Pooh!"  said  Miss  Whalley.  "It  was  the  chance  of  her 
life." 

A  faint  flush  rose  in  Mrs.  Lorimer 's  face.  "She  is  a  dear 
girl,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without 
her." 

"The  children  are  getting  older  now,  "  said  Miss  Whalley. 
"Jeanie  ought  to  be  able  to  take  her  place  to  a  very  great 
extent." 

"My  little  Jeanie  is  not  strong,"  murmured  Mrs.  Lori- 


Dead  Sea  Fruit  341 

mer.  "She  does  what  she  can,  but  her  lessons  tire  her  so. 
She  never  has  much  energy  left,  poor  child.  She  has  not 
managed  to  finish  her  holiday-task  yet,  and  it  occupies  all 
her  spare  time.  I  told  the  Vicar  that  I  really  did  not  think 
she  was  equal  to  it.  But — "  the  sentence  went  into  a 
heavy  sigh,  and  further  words  failed. 

"The  Vicar  is  always  very  judicious  with  his  children," 
observed  Miss  Whalley. 

"He  does  not  err  on  the  side  of  mercy,"  said  his  wife 
pathetically.  "And  he  does  not  seem  to  realize  that  Jeanie 
lacks  the  vitality  of  the  others, — though  how  they  ever  got 
through  their  tasks  I  can't  imagine.  It  must  have  been 
dear  Avery's  doing.  She  is  a  genius  with  children.  They 
all  managed  it  but  poor  Jeanie.  How  ever  we  shall  get  on 
without  her  I  cannot  think. " 

"But  she  was  under  notice  to  go,  I  am  told,"  observed 
Miss  Whalley. 

"Yes, — yes,  I  know.  But  I  had  hoped  that  the  Vicar 
might  relent.  You  see,  she  has  been  invaluable  to  us  in  so 
many  ways.  However,  I  hope  when  she  comes  back  that 
we  shall  sec  a  great  deal  of  her.  She  is  so  good  to  the 
children  and  they  adore  her.  " 

"  I  doubt  if  she  will  have  much  time  to  bestow  upon  them 
if  the  County  really  do  decide  to  accept  her,"  remarked 
Miss  Whalley.  "You  forget  that  she  is  now  Lady  Eve- 
sham,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lorimer,  and  little  likely  to  remember 
old  friends  now  that  she  has  attained  the  summit  of  her 
ambition." 

"I  don't  think  Avery  would  forget  us  if  she  became  a 
royal  princess,"  said  Airs.  Lorimer,  with  a  confidence  that 
Miss  Whalley  found  peculiarly  irritating. 

"Ah  well,  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see!"  she  said.  "I  for 
one  shall  be  extremely  surprised  if  she  elects  to  remain  on 
the  same  intimate  footing.  From  mother's  help  at  the 
Vicarage  to  Lady  Evesham  of  Rodding  Abbey  is  a  consider- 


342  The  Bars  of  Iron 

able  leap,  and  she  will  be  scarcely  human  if  it  does  not 
turn  her  head. " 

But  Mrs.  Lorimer  merely  smiled  and  said  no  more.  She 
knew  how  little  Avery  was  drawn  by  pomp  and  circum 
stance,  but  she  would  not  vaunt  her  knowledge  before  one 
so  obviously  incapable  of  understanding.  In  silence  she  let 
the  subject  pass. 

"And  where  is  the  honeymoon  to  be  spent? "enquired 
Miss  Whalley,  who  was  there  to  glean  information  and  did 
not  mean  to  go  empty  away. 

But  Mrs.  Lorimer  shook  her  head.  "Even  I  don't  know 
that.  Piers  had  a  whim  to  go  just  where  they  fancied. 
They  will  call  for  letters  at  certain  post-offices  on  certain 
days ;  but  he  did  not  want  to  feel  bound  to  stay  at  any  parti 
cular  place.  Where  they  are  at  the  present  moment  or 
where  they  will  spend  to-night,  I  have  not  the  faintest 
idea.  Nobody  knows !" 

"How  extremely  odd!"  sniffed  Miss  Whalley.  "But 
young  Evesham  always  was  so  ill-balanced  and  eccentric. 
Is  it  true  that  Dr.  Tudor  went  to  the  wedding  this 
morning?" 

"Quite  true,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "I  thought  it  was  so 
kind  of  him.  He  arrived  a  little  late.  Avery  did  not  know 
he  was  there  until  it  was  over.  But  he  came  forward 
then  and  shook  hands  with  them  both  and  wished  them 
happiness.  He  and  young  Mr.  Guyes,  who  supported 
Piers,  were  the  only  two  present  besides  the  Eveshams' 
family  solicitor  from  Wardenhurst  and  ourselves.  I 
gave  the  dear  girl  away,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer  with  gentle 
pride.  "And  my  dear  husband  conducted  the  service  so 
impressively. " 

"I  am  sure  he  would, "  said  Miss  Whalley.  "But  I  think 
it  was  unfortunate  that  so  much  secrecy  was  observed. 
People  are  so  apt  to  talk  uncharitably.  It  was  really  most 
indiscreet." 


Dead  Sea  Fruit  343 

Could  she  have  heard  the  remark  which  Piers  was  making 
at  that  identical  moment  to  his  bride,  she  would  have 
understood  one  of  the  main  reasons  for  his  indiscretion. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  deep,  deep  heart  of  a  wood — an 
enchanted  wood  that  was  heavy  with  the  spring  fragrance  of 
the  mountain-ash, — and  Piers,  the  while  he  peeled  a  stick 
with  the  deftness  of  boyhood,  observed  with  much  complac 
ence:  "Well,  we've  done  that  old  Whalley  chatterbox  out 
of  a  treat  anyway.  Of  all  the  old  parish  gossips,  that  woman 
is  the  worst.  I  never  pass  her  house  without  seeing  her  peer 
over  her  blind.  She  always  looks  at  me  with  a  suspicious, 
disapproving  eye.  It's  rather  a  shame,  you  know,"  he 
wound  up  pathetically,  "for  she  has  only  once  in  her  life 
found  me  out,  and  that  was  a  dozen  years  ago. " 

Avery  laughed  a  little.  "I  don't  think  she  approves  of 
any  men  except  the  clergy. " 

"Oh  yes,  she  clings  like  a  leech  to  the  skirts  of  the 
Church, "  said  Piers  irreverently.  "There  are  plenty  of  her 
sort  about — wherever  there  are  parsons,  in  fact.  Of  course 
it's  the  parsons'  fault.  If  they  didn't  encourage  'em  they 
wouldn't  be  there. " 

"I  don't  know  that, "  said  Avery,  with  a  smile.  "I  think 
you're  a  little  hard  on  parsons. " 

"Do  you?  Well,  I  don't  know  many.  The  Reverend 
Stephen  is  enough  for  me.  I  fight  shy  of  all  the  rest." 

"My  dear,  how  very  narrow  of  you!"  said  Avery. 

He  turned  to  her  boyishly.  "Don't  tell  me  you  want  to 
be  a  female  curate  like  the  Whalley!  I  couldn't  bear  it!" 

"I  haven't  the  smallest  leaning  in  that  direction,  "  Avery 
assured  him.  "But  at  the  same  time,  one  of  my  greatest 
friends  is  about  to  enter  the  Church,  and  I  do  want  you  to 
meet  and  like  him." 

A  sudden  silence  followed  her  words.  Piers  resumed  the 
peeling  of  his  stick  with  minute  attention.  "I  am  sure  to 
like  him  if  you  do, "  he  remarked,  after  a  moment. 


344  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  touched  his  arm  lightly.  "Thank  you,  dear.  He  is  an 
Australian,  and  the  very  greatest-hearted  man  I  ever  met. 
He  stood  by  me  in  a  time  of  great  trouble.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  him.  I  hope  he  won't 
feel  hurt,  but  I  haven't  even  told  him  of  my  marriage  yet. " 

"We  have  been  married  just  ten  hours, "  observed  Piers, 
still  intent  upon  his  task. 

She  laughed  again.  "Yes,  but  it  is  ten  days  since  we 
became  engaged,  and  I  owe  him  a  letter  into  the  bargain. 
He  wanted  to  arrange  to  meet  me  in  town  one  day ;  but  he 
is  still  too  busy  to  fix  a  date.  He  is  studying  very  hard. " 

"What's  his  name?"  said  Piers. 

"Crowther — Edmund  Crowther.  He  has  been  a  farmer 
for  years  in  Queensland."  Avery  paused  a  moment.  "It 
was  he  who  broke  the  news  to  me  of  my  husband's  death,  " 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  told  you  about  that,  Piers." 

"You  did,"  said  Piers. 

His  tone  was  deliberately  repressive,  and  a  little  quiver 
of  disappointment  went  through  Avery.  She  became 
silent,  and  the  magic  of  the  woods  closed  softly  in  upon  them. 
Evening  was  drawing  on,  and  the  long,  golden  rays  of  sun 
shine  lay  like  a  benediction  over  the  quiet  earth. 

The  silence  between  them  grew  and  expanded  into  some 
thing  of  a  barrier.  From  her  seat  on  a  fallen  tree  Avery 
gazed  out  before  her.  She  could  not  see  Piers'  face  which 
was  bent  above  the  stick  which  he  had  begun  to  whittle 
with  his  knife.  He  was  sitting  on  the  ground  at  her  feet, 
and  only  his  black  head  was  visible  to  her. 

Suddenly,  almost  fiercely,  he  spoke.  "I  know  Edmund 
Crowther." 

Avery's  eyes  came  down  to  him  in  astonishment.  "You 
know  him!" 

"Yes,  I  know  him."  He  worked  furiously  at  his  stick 
without  looking  up.  His  words  came  in  quick  jerks,  as  if 
for  some  reason  he  wanted  to  get  them  spoken  without 


Dead  Sea  Fruit  345 

delay.  "I  met  him  years  ago.  He  did  me  a  good  turn — 
helped  me  out  of  a  tight  corner.  A  few  weeks  ago — when  I 
was  at  Monte  Carlo  with  my  grandfather — I  met  him  again. 
He  told  me  then  that  he  knew  you.  Of  course  it  was  a  rum 
coincidence.  Heaven  only  knows  what  makes  these  things 
happen.  You  needn't  write  to  him,  I  will." 

He  ceased  to  speak,  and  suddenly  Avery  saw  that  his 
hands  were  trembling — trembling  violently  as  the  hands  of 
a  man  with  an  ague.  She  watched  them  silently,  wonder 
ing  at  his  agitation,  till  Piers,  becoming  aware  of  her  scru 
tiny,  abruptly  flung  aside  the  stick  upon  which  he  had  been 
expending  so  much  care  and  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  laugh 
that  sounded  oddly  strained  to  her  ears. 

"Come  along!"  he  said.  "If  we  sit  here  talking  like 
Darby  and  Joan  much  longer,  we  shall  forget  that  it's 
actually  our  wedding-day." 

Avery  looked  up  at  him  without  rising,  a  queer  sense  of 
foreboding  at  her  heart.  "Then  Edmund  Crowther  is  a 
friend  of  yours, "  she  said.  "A  close  friend? " 

He  stood  above  her,  and  she  saw  a  very  strange  look  in 
his  eyes — almost  a  desperate  look. 

"Quite  a  close  friend, "  he  said  in  answer.  " But  he  won't 
be  if  you  waste  any  more  thought  on  him  for  many  days  to 
come.  I  want  your  thoughts  all  for  myself. " 

Again  he  laughed,  holding  out  his  hands  to  her  with  a 
gesture  that  compelled  rather  than  invited.  She  yielded 
to  his  insistence,  but  with  a  curious,  hurt  feeling  as  of  one 
repulsed.  It  was  as  if  he  had  closed  a  door  in  her  face, 
not  violently  or  in  any  sense  rudely,  yet  with  such  evident 
intention  that  she  had  almost  heard  the  click  of  the  key  in 
the  lock. 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  through  the  enchanted  wood; 
and  for  ever  after,  the  scent  of  mountain-ash  blossom  was  to 
Avery  a  bitter-sweet  memory  of  that  which  should  have 
been  wholly  sweet. 


346  The  Bars  of  Iron 

As  for  Piers,  she  did  not  know  what  was  in  his  mind, 
though  she  was  aware  for  a  time  of  a  lack  of  spontaneity 
behind  his  tenderness  which  disquieted  her  vaguely.  She 
felt  as  if  a  shadow  had  fallen  upon  him,  veiling  his  inner 
soul  from  her  sight. 

Yet  when  they  sat  together  in  the  magic  quiet  of  the 
spring  night  in  a  garden  that  had  surely  been  planted  for 
lovers  the  cloud  lifted,  and  she  saw  him  again  in  all  the 
ardour  of  his  love  for  her.  For  he  poured  it  out  to  her  there 
in  the  silence,  eagerly,  burningly, — the  worship  that  had 
opened  to  her  the  gate  of  that  paradise  which  she  had  never 
more  hoped  to  tread. 

She  put  her  doubts  and  fears  away  from  her,  she  answered 
to  his  call.  He  had  awaked  the  woman's  heart  in  her,  and 
she  gave  freely,  impulsively,  not  measuring  her  gift.  If  she 
could  not  offer  him  a  girl's  first  rapture,  she  could  bestow 
that  which  was  infinitely  greater — the  deep,  strong  love  of  a 
woman  who  had  suffered  and  knew  how  to  endure. 

They  sat  in  the  dewy  garden  till  in  the  distant  woods  the 
nightingales  began  their  passion-steeped  music,  and  then — 
because  the  ecstasy  of  the  night  was  almost  more  than  she 
could  bear — A  very  softly  freed  herself  from  her  husband's 
arm  and  rose. 

"Going?"  he  asked  quickly. 

He  remained  seated  holding  her  hand  fast  locked  in  his. 
She  looked  down  into  his  upraised  face,  conscious  that  her 
own  was  in  shadow  and  that  she  need  not  try  to  hide  the 
tears  that  had  risen  inexplicably  to  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  answered,  with  an  effort  at  lightness. 
"You  haven't  had  a  smoke  since  dinner.  I  am  going  to 
leave  you  to  have  one  now." 

But  he  still  held  her,  as  if  he  could  not  let  her  go. 

She  bent  to  him  after  a  moment  with  that  sweet  impulsive 
ness  of  hers  that  so  greatly  charmed  all  who  loved  her. 
"What  is  it,  Piers?  Don't  you  want  me  to  go?" 


Dead  Sea  Fruit  347 

He  caught  her  other  hand  in  his  and  held  them  both 
against  his  lips. 

"Want  you  to  go!"  he  muttered  almost  inarticulately; 
and  then  suddenly  he  raised  his  face  again  to  hers. 
"  Avery — A  very,  promise  me — swear  to  me — that,  whatever 
happens,  you  will  never  leave  me!" 

"But,  my  dearest,  haven't  I  already  sworn — only  to 
day?"  she  said,  surprised  by  his  vehemence  and  his  request. 
"Of  course  I  shall  never  leave  you.  My  place  is  by  your 
side. " 

"I  know!  I  know!"  he  said.  "But  it  isn't  enough.  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  personally,  so  that — I  shall  always 
feel — quite  sure  of  you.  You  see,  Avery, "  his  words  came 
with  difficulty,  his  upturned  face  seemed  to  beseech  her, 
"I'm  not — the  sort  of  impossible,  chivalrous  knight  that 
Jeanie  thinks  me.  I'm  horribly  bad.  I  sometimes  think 
I've  got  a  devil  inside  me.  And  I've  done  things — I've 
done  things — •"  His  voice  shook  suddenly;  he  ended 
abruptly,  with  heaving  breath.  "Before  I  ever  met  you, 
I — wronged  you. " 

He  would  have  let  her  go  then,  but  it  was  her  hands  that 
held.  She  stooped  lower  to  him,  divinely  tender,  her  love 
seeming  to  spread  all  about  him  like  wings,  folding  him  in. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  softly,  "whatever  there  is  of  bad  in 
you, — remember,  the  best  is  mine!" 

He  caught  at  the  words.  "The  best — the  best!  You 
shall  always  have  that,  Avery.  But,  my  darling, — you 
understand — you  do  understand — how  utterly  unworthy 
that  best  is  of  you  ?  You  must  understand  that  before — 
before " 

Again  his  voice  went  into  silence;  but  she  saw  his  eyes 
glow  suddenly,  hotly,  in  the  gloom,  and  her  heart  gave  a 
quick  hard  throb  that  caught  her  breath  and  held  it  for  the 
moment  suspended,  waiting. 

He  went  on  after  a  second,  mastering  himself  with  obvi- 


348  The  Bars  of  Iron 

ous  effort.  "What  I  am  trying  to  say  is  this.  It's  easier 
• — or  at  least  not  impossible — to  forfeit  what  you've  never 
had.  But  afterwards — afterwards — "  His  hands  closed 
tightly  upon  hers  again;  his  voice  sounded  half -choked. 
"Avery,  I — couldn't  let  you  go — afterwards,"  he  said. 

"But,  my  own  Piers,"  she  whispered,  "haven't  you  said 
that  there  is  no  reason — no  earthly  reason " 

He  broke  in  upon  her  almost  fiercely.  "There  is  no 
reason — none  whatever — I  swear  it!  You  said  yourself 
that  the  past  was  nothing  tc  you.  You  meant  it,  A  very, 
Say  you  meant  it!" 

"But  of  course  I  meant  it! "  she  told  him.  " Only,  Piers, 
there  is  no  secret  chamber  in  my  life  that  ycu  may  not  enter. 
Perhaps  some  day,  dear,  when  you  come  to  realize  that  I  am 
older  than  Jeanie,  you  will  open  all  your  doors  to  me!" 

There  was  pleading  in  her  voice,  notwithstanding  its 
note  of  banter;  but  she  did  not  stay  to  plead.  With  the 
whispered  words  she  stooped  and  softly  kissed  him.  Then 
ere  he  could  detain  her  longer  she  gently  released  herself 
and  was  gone. 

He  saw  her  light  figure  flit  ghost-like  across  the  dim 
stretch  of  grass  and  vanish  into  the  shadows.  And  he 
started  to  his  feet  as  if  he  would  follow  or  call  her  back. 
But  he  did  neither.  He  only  stood  swaying  on  his  feet  with 
a  face  of  straining  impotence — as  of  a  prisoner  wrestling 
vainly  with  his  iron  bars — until  she  had  gone  wholly  from  his 
sight.  And  then  with  a  stifled  groan  he  dropped  down 
again  into  his  chair  and  covered  his  face. 

He  had  paid  a  heavy  price  to  enter  the  garden  of  his 
desire;  but  already  he  had  begun  to  realize  that  the  fruit 
he  gathered  there  was  Dead  Sea  Fruit. 


CHAPTER  II 

THAT  WHICH   IS  HOLY 

NO  bells  had  rung  at  the  young  Squire's  wedding.  It 
had  been  conducted  with  a  privacy  which  Miss 
Whalley  described  as  "almost  indecent."  But  there  was 
no  privacy  about  his  return,  and  Miss  Whalley  was  shocked 
afresh  at  the  brazen  heartlessness  of  it  after  his  recent 
bereavement.  For  Sir  Piers  and  his  wife  motored  h®me 
at  the  end  of  July  through  a  village  decked  with  flags  and 
bunting  and  under  a  triumphant  arch  that  made  Piers* 
little  two-seater  seem  absurdly  insignificant ;  while  the  bells 
in  the  church-tower  clanged  the  noisest  welcome  they  could 
compass,  and  Gracie — home  for  the  holidays — mustered  the 
school-children  to  cheer  their  hardest  as  the  happy  couple 
passed  the  schoolhouse  gate. 

A  very  would  fain  have  stopped  to  greet  the  child,  but 
Piers  would  not  be  persuaded. 

"No,  no!  To-morrow!"  he  said.  "The  honeymoon 
isn't  over  till  after  to-night. " 

So  they  waved  and  were  gone,  at  a  speed  which  made 
Miss  Whalley  wonder  what  the  local  police  could  be  about. 

Once  past  the  lodge-gates  and  Marshall's  half -grudging, 
half -pleased  smile  of  welcome,  the  speed  was  doubled. 
Piers  went  like  the  wind,  till  Avery  breathlessly  cried  to 
him  to  stop. 

"You'll  kill  us  both  before  we  get  there!"  she  protested. 

In  answer  to  which  Piers  moderated  the  pace,  remark- 

349 


35°  The  Bars  of  Iron 

ing  as  he  did  so,  "But  you  would  like  to  die  by  my  side, 
what?" 

Victor  was  on  the  steps  to  receive  them,  Victor  dancing 
with  impatience  and  delight.  For  his  young  master's  pro 
longed  honeymoon  had  represented  ten  weeks  of  desolation 
to  him. 

Old  David  was  also  present,  inconspicuous  and  dignified, 
waiting  to  pour  out  tea  for  the  travellers. 

And  Caesar  the  Dalmatian  who  had  mourned  with  Victor 
for  his  absent  deity  now  leapt  upon  him  in  one  great  rush  of 
ecstatic  welcome  that  nearly  bore  him  backwards. 

It  was  a  riotous  home-coming,  for  Piers  was  in  boisterous 
spirits.  They  had  travelled  far  that  day,  but  he  was  in  a 
mood  of  such  restless  energy  that  he  seemed  incapable  of 
feeling  fatigue. 

Avery  on  her  part  was  thoroughly  weary,  but  she  would 
not  tell  him  so,  and  they  spent  the  whole  evening  in  wander 
ing  about  house  and  gardens,  discussing  the  advisability 
of  various  alterations  and  improvements.  In  the  end  Piers 
awoke  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  she  was  looking  utterly 
exhausted,  and  with  swift  compunction  piloted  her  to  her 
room. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  he  declared.  "You  must  be  dead 
beat.  Why  didn't  you  say  you  wanted  to  rest?  " 

" I  didn't,  dear, "  she  answered  simply.  "I  wanted  to  be 
with  you." 

He  caught  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  You  are  happy  with  me 
then?" 

She  uttered  a  little  laugh  that  said  more  than  words. 
"  My  own  boy,  you  give  me  all  that  the  most  exacting  woman 
could  possibly  desire  and  then  ask  me  that!" 

He  laughed  too,  his  arm  close  about  her.  "  I  would  give 
you  the  world  if  I  had  it.  Avery,  I  hate  to  think  we've  come 
home — that  the  honeymoon  is  over — and  the  old  beastly 
burdens  waiting  to  be  shouldered — "  He  laid  his  fore- 


That  Which  Is  Holy  351 

Head  against  her  neck  with  a  gesture  that  made  her  fancy 
he  did  not  wish  her  to  see  his  face  for  the  moment.  "  P'r'aps 
I'm  a  heartless  brute,  but  I  never  missed  the  old  chap  all  the 
time  I  was  away,"  he  whispered.  "It's  like  being  dragged 
under  the  scourge  again — just  when  the  old  scars  were 
beginning  to  heal — to  come  back  to  this  empty  barrack." 

She  slid  a  quick  arm  round  his  neck,  all  the  woman's 
heart  in  her  responding  to  the  cry  from  his. 

"The  place  is  full  of  him,"  Piers  went  on;  "I  meet  him 
at  every  corner.  I  see  him  in  his  old  place  on  the  settle  in 
the  hall,  where  he  used  to  wait  for  me,  and — and  row  me 
every  night  for  being  late."  He  gave  a  broken  laugh. 
"Avery,  if  it  weren't  for  you,  I — I  believe  I  should  shoot 
myself. " 

"  Come  and  sit  down ! "  said  Avery  gently.  She  drew  him 
to  a  couch,  and  they  sat  down  locked  together. 

During  all  the  ten  weeks  of  their  absence  he  had  scarcely 
even  mentioned  his  grandfather.  He  had  been  gay  and 
inconsequent,  or  fiercely  passionate  in  his  devotion  to  her. 
But  of  his  loss  he  had  never  spoken,  and  vaguely  she  had 
known  that  he  had  shut  it  out  of  his  life  with  that  other  grim 
shadow  that  dwelt  behind  the  locked  door  she  might  not 
open.  She  had  not  deemed  him  heartless,  but  she  had 
regretted  that  deliberate  shirking  of  his  grief.  She  had 
known  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have  to  endure  the 
scourging  of  which  he  spoke  and  that  it  would  not  grow 
the  lighter  with  postponement. 

And  now  as  she  held  him  against  her  heart,  she  was  in  a 
sense  relieved  that  it  had  come  at  last,  thankful  to  be  there 
with  him  while  he  stripped  himself  of  all  subterfuge  and 
faced  his  sorrow. 

He  could  not  speak  much  as  he  sat  there  clasped  in  her 
arms.  One  or  two  attempts  he  made,  and  then  broke 
down  against  her  breast.  But  no  words  were  needed. 
Her  arms  were  all  he  desired  for  consolation,  and  if  they 


352  The  Bars  of  Iron 

waked  in  him  the  old  wild  remorse,  he  stifled  it  ere  it  could 
take  full  possession. 

Finally,  when  the  first  bitterness  had  passed,  they  sat 
and  talked  together,  and  he  found  relief  in  telling  her  of  the 
life  he  had  lived  in  close  companionship  with  the  old  man. 

"We  quarrelled  a  dozen  times,"  he  said.  "But  some 
how  we  could  neither  of  us  keep  it  up.  I  don't  know  why. 
We  were  violent  enough  at  times.  There's  an  Evesham 
devil  somewhere  in  our  ancestry,  and  he  has  a  trick  of  crop 
ping  up  still  in  moments  of  excitement.  You've  met  him 
more  than  once.  He's  a  formidable  monster,  what?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  him,"  said  A  very,  with  her  cheek 
against  his  black  head. 

He  gave  a  shaky  laugh.  "You'd  fling  a  bucket  of  water 
over  Satan  himself!  I  love  you  for  not  being  afraid.  But 
I  don't  know  how  you  manage  it,  and  that's  a  fact.  Dar 
ling,  I'm  a  selfish  brute  to  wear  you  out  like  this.  Send  me 
away  when  you  can't  stand  any  more  of  me !" 

"Would  you  go?"  she  said,  softly  stroking  his  cheek. 

He  caught  her  hand  again  and  kissed  it  hotly,  devour 
ingly,  in  answer.  "But  I  mustn't  wear  you  out,"  he  said, 
a  moment  later,  with  an  odd  wistfulness.  "You  mustn't 
let  me,  A  very. " 

She  drew  her  hand  gently  away  from  the  clinging  of  his 
lips.  "No,  I  won't  let  you, "  she  said,  in  a  tone  he  did  not 
understand. 

He  clasped  her  to  him.  "It's  because  I  worship  you  so," 
he  whispered  passionately.  "There  is  no  one  else  in  the 
world  but  you.  I  adore  you!  I  adore  you!" 

She  closed  her  eyes  from  the  fiery  worship  that  looked 
forth  from  his.  "Piers,"  she  said,  "wait,  dear,  wait!" 

"Why  should  I  wait?"  he  demanded  almost  fiercely. 

"Because  I  ask  you.  Because — just  now — to  be  loved 
like  that  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  Will  you — can  you— 
kiss  me  only  once,  and  go?" 


That  Which  Is  Holy  353 

He  held  her  in  his  arms.  He  gazed  long  and  burningly 
upon  her.  In  the  end  he  stopped  and  with  reverence  he 
kissed  her.  "I  am  going,  Avery,"  he  said. 

She  opened  her  eyes  to  him.  "God  bless  you,  my  own 
Piers!"  she  murmured  softly,  and  laid  her  cheek  for  a 
moment  against  his  sleeve  ere  he  took  his  arm  away. 

As  for  Piers,  he  went  from  her  as  if  he  feared  to  trespass, 
and  her  heart  smote  her  a  little  as  she  watched  him  go. 
But  she  would  not  call  him  back.  She  went  instead  to  one 
of  the  great  bay  windows  and  leaned  against  the  framework, 
gazing  out.  He  was  very  good  to  her  in  all  things,  but 
there  were  times  when  she  felt  solitude  to  be  an  absolute 
necessity.  His  vitality,  his  fevered  desire  for  her,  wore  upon 
her  nerves.  His  attitude  towards  her  was  not  wholly 
natural.  It  held  something  of  a  menace  to  her  peace  which 
disquieted  her  vaguely.  She  had  a  feeling  that  though  she 
knew  herself  to  be  all  he  wanted  in  the  world,  yet  she  did 
not  succeed  in  fully  satisfying  him.  He  seemed  to  be 
perpetually  craving  for  something  further,  as  though 
somewhere  deep  within  him  there  burned  a  fiery  thirst  that 
nothing  could  ever  slake.  Her  lightest  touch  seemed  to 
awake  it,  and  there  were  moments  when  his  unfettered 
passion  made  her  afraid. 

Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  had  him  know  it.  Her 
love  for  him  was  too  deep  to  let  her  shrink;  and  she  knew 
that  only  by  that  love  did  she  maintain  her  ascendancy, 
appealing  to  his  higher  nature  as  only  true  love  can  appeal. 
But  the  perpetual  strain  of  it  told  upon  her,  and  that  night 
she  felt  tired  in  body  and  soul. 

The  great  bedroom  behind  her  with  its  dark  hangings 
and  oak  furniture  seemed  dreary  and  unhome-like.  She 
viewed  the  ancient  and  immense  four-poster  with  misgiving 
and  wondered  if  Queen  Elizabeth  had  ever  slept  in  it. 

After  a  time  she  investigated  Piers'  room  beyond,  and 
found  it  less  imposing  though  curiously  stiff  and  wholly 


354  The  Bars  of  Iron 

lacking  in  ordinary  cheery  comfort.  Later  she  discovered 
the  reason  for  this  grim  severity  of  arrangement.  No 
woman's  touch  had  softened  it  for  close  upon  half  a  century. 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room  and  dressed.  Piers  had 
wanted  her  to  have  a  maid,  but  she  had  refused  until  other 
changes  should  be  made  in  the  establishment.  There 
seemed  so  much  to  alter  that  she  felt  bewildered.  A  house 
hold  of  elderly  menservants  presented  a  problem  with 
which  she  knew  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  deal. 

She  put  the  matter  gently  before  Piers  that  night,  but 
he  dismissed  it  as  trivial. 

"You  can't  turn  'em  off  of  course,"  he  said.  "But 
you  can  have  a  dozen  women  to  adjust  the  balance  if  you 
want  "em." 

Avery  did  not,  but  she  was  too  tired  to  argue  the  point. 
She  let  the  subject  slide. 

They  dined  together  in  the  oak-panelled  dining-room 
where  Piers  had  so  often  sat  with  his  grandfather.  The 
table  seemed  to  stretch  away  inimitably  into  shadows,  and 
Avery  felt  like  a  Lilliputian.  From  the  wall  directly  facing 
her  the  last  Lady  Evesham  smiled  upon  her — her  baffling, 
mirthless  smile  that  seemed  to  cover  naught  but  heartache. 
She  found  herself  looking  up  again  and  again  to  meet  those 
eyes  of  mocking  comprehension;  and  the  memory  of  what 
Lennox  Tudor  had  once  told  her  recurred  to  her.  This  was 
Piers'  Italian  grandmother  whose  patrician  beauty  had 
descended  to  him  through  her  scapegrace  son. 

"Are  you  looking  at  that  woman  with  the  smile?"  said 
Piers  abruptly. 

She  turned  to  him.  "You  are  so  like  her,  Piers.  But  I 
wouldn't  like  you  to  have  a  smile  like  that.  There  is 
something  tragic  behind  it." 

"We  are  a  tragic  family, "  said  Piers  sombrely.  "As  for 
her,  she  ruined  her  own  life  and  my  grandfather's  too.  She 
might  have  been  happy  enough  with  him  if  she  had  tried." 


That  Which  Is  Holy  355 

"Oh,  Piers,  I  wonder!"  Avery  said,  with  a  feeling  that 
that  smile  revealed  more  to  her  than  to  him. 

"I  say  she  might,"  Piers  reiterated,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience.  "He  thought  the  world  of  her,  just  as — just 
as — "  he  smiled  at  her  suddenly — "I  do  of  you.  He 
never  knew  that  she  wasn't  satisfied  until  one  fine  day  she 
left  him.  She  married  again — afterwards,  and  then  died. 
He  never  got  over  it. " 

But  still  Avery  had  a  vagrant  feeling  of  pity  for  the 
woman  who  had  been  Sir  Beverley's  bride.  "I  expect 
they  never  really  understood  each  other, "  she  said. 

Piers'  dark  eyes  gleamed.  "Do  you  know  what  I  would 
have  done  if  I  had  been  in  his  place?"  he  said.  "I  would 
have  gone  after  her  and  brought  her  back — even  if  I'd  killed 
her  afterwards. " 

His  voice  vibrated  on  a  deep  note  of  savagery.  He 
poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  with  a  hand  that  shook. 

Avery  said  nothing,  but  through  the  silence  she  was  con 
scious  of  the  hard  throbbing  of  her  heart.  There  was  some 
thing  implacable,  something  almost  cruel,  about  Piers  at 
that  moment.  She  felt  as  if  he  had  bruised  her  without 
knowing  it. 

And  then  in  his  sudden,  bewildering  way  he  left  his  chair 
and  came  to  her,  stooped  boyishly  over  her.  "  My  darling, 
you're  so  awfully  pale  to-night.  Have  some  wine — to 
please  me!" 

She  leaned  her  head  back  against  his  shoulder  and  closed 
her  eyes.  "I  am  a  little  tired,  dear;  but  I  don't  want  any 
wine.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  the  morning. " 

He  laid  his  cheek  against  her  forehead.  "I  want  you  to 
drink  a  toast  with  me.  Won't  you?" 

"We  won't  drink  to  each  other,"  she  protested,  faintly 
smiling.  "It's  too  like  drinking  to  ourselves." 

"That's  the  sweetest  thing  you've  ever  said  to  me,"  he 
declared.  "But  we  won't  toast  ourselves.  We'll  drink  to 


356  The  Bars  of  Iron 

the  future,  Avery,  and — "  he  lowered  his  voice —  "and  all 
it  contains.     What?" 

Her  eyes  opened  quickly,  but  she  did  not  move.  "Why 
do  you  say  that?" 

"What?"  he  said  again  very  softly. 

She  was  silent. 

He  reached  a  hand  for  his  own  glass.  "Drink  with  me, 
sweetheart!"  he  said  persuasively. 

She  suffered  him  to  put  it  to  her  lips  and  drank  sub 
missively.  But  in  a  moment  she  put  up  a  restraining  hand. 
"You  finish  it ! "  she  said,  and  pushed  it  gently  towards  him. 

He  took  it  and  held  it  high.  The  light  gleamed  crimson  in 
the  wine;  it  glowed  like  liquid  fire.  A  moment  he  held  it  so, 
then  without  a  word  he  carried  it  to  his  lips  and  drained  it. 

A  second  later  there  came  the  sound  of  splintering  glass, 
and  Avery,  turning  in  her  chair,  discovered  that  he  had  flung 
it  over  his  shoulder. 

She  gazed  at  him  in  amazement  astonished  by  his  action. 
"Piers!" 

But  something  in  his  face  checked  her.  "No  one  will 
wer  drink  out  of  that  glass  again,"  he  said.  "Are  you 
>eady?  Shall  we  go  in  the  garden  for  a  breath  of  air?" 

She  went  with  him,  but  on  the  terrace  outside  he  stopped 
impulsively.  "Avery  darling,  I  don't  mean  to  be  a  selfish 
beast;  but  I've  got  to  prowl  for  a  bit.  Would  you  rather  go 
to  bed?" 

His  arm  was  round  her;  she  leaned  against  him  half- 
laughing.  "Do  you  know,  dear,  that  bedroom  frightens 
me  with  its  magnificence!  Don't  prowl  too  long!" 

He  bent  to  her  swiftly.      "Avery!     Do  you  want  me?" 

"Just  to  scare  away  the  bogies,"  she  made  answer,  with 
a  lightness  that  scarcely  veiled  a  deeper  feeling.     "And 
when   you've   done   that — quite   thoroughly — perhaps — ' 
She  stopped. 

"Perhaps —  "  whispered  Piers. 


That  Which  Is  Holy  357 

"Perhaps  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,"  she  said  still  lightly. 
"By  the  way,  dear,  I  found  a  letter  from  Mr.  Crowther 
waiting  for  me.  I  put  it  in  your  room  for  you  to  read.  He 
writes  so  kindly.  Wouldn't  you  like  him  to  be  our  first 
visitor?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before  Piers  made  answer. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said  then.  "We  mustn't  forget  Crow 
ther.  You  wrote  and  told  him  everything,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  everything.  He  seems  very  fond  of  you,  Piers. 
But  you  must  read  his  letter.  It  concerns  you  quite  as 
much  as  it  does  me.  There!  I  am  going.  Good-bye! 
Come  up  soon!" 

She  patted  his  shoulder  and  turned  away.  Somehow  it 
had  not  been  easy  to  speak  of  Crowther.  She  had  known 
that  in  doing  so  she  had  introduced  an  unwelcome  subject. 
But  Crowther  was  too  great  a  friend  to  ignore.  She  felt 
that  she  had  treated  him  somewhat  casually  already;  for  it 
was  only  the  previous  week  that  she  had  written  to  tell  him 
of  her  marriage. 

Crowther  was  in  town,  studying  hard  for  an  examination, 
and  she  felt  convinced  that  he  would  be  willing  to  pay  them 
a  visit.  She  also  knew  that  for  some  reason  Piers  was 
reluctant  to  ask  him,  but  she  felt  that  that  fact  ought  not  to 
influence  her.  For  she  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Crowther 
which  she  could  never  forget. 

But  all  thought  of  Crowther  faded  from  her  mind  when 
she  found  herself  once  more  in  that  eerie,  tapestry-hung 
bedroom.  The  place  had  been  lighted  with  candles,  but 
they  only  seemed  to  emphasize  the  gloom.  She  wondered 
how  often  the  last  Lady  Evesham — the  warm-blooded, 
passionate  Italian  woman  with  her  love  of  the  sun  and  all 
things  beautiful — had  stood  as  she  stood  now  and  shuddered 
at  the  dreary  splendour  of  her  surroundings.  How  home 
sick  she  must  have  been,  Avery  thought  to  herself,  as 
she  undressed  in  the  flickering  candle-light!  How  her  soul 


358  The  Bars  of  Iron 

must  have  yearned  for  the  glittering  Southern  life  she  had 
left! 

She  thought  of  Sir  Beverley.  He  must  have  been  very 
like  Piers  in  his  youth,  less  fierce,  less  intense,  but  in  many 
ways  practically  the  same,  giving  much  and  demanding 
even  more,  restless  and  exacting,  but  withal  so  lovable,  so 
hard  to  resist,  so  infinitely  dear.  All  her  love  for  Piers 
throbbed  suddenly  up  to  the  surface.  How  good  he  was 
to  her !  What  would  life  be  without  him  ?  She  reproached 
herself  for  ingratitude  and  discontent.  Life  was  a  beautiful 
thing  if  only  she  would  have  it  so. 

She  knelt  down  at  length  by  the  deep  cushioned  window- 
seat  and  began  to  pray.  The  night  was  dim  and  quiet,  and 
as  she  prayed  she  gradually  forgot  the  shadows  behind  her 
and  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  the  immensity  of  its  peace. 
She  realized  as  never  before  that  by  her  love  she  must 
prevail.  It  was  the  one  weapon,  unfailing  and  invincible, 
that  alone  would  serve  her,  when  she  could  rely  upon  no 
other.  She  knew  that  he  had  felt  its  influence,  that  there 
were  times  when  he  did  instinctive  reverence  to  it,  as 
to  that  which  is  holy.  She  knew  moreover  that  there  was 
that  within  him  that  answered  to  it  as  it  were  involuntarily 
— a  fiery  essence  in  which  his  passion  had  no  part  which 
dwelt  deep  down  in  his  turbulent  heart — a  germ  of  greatness 
which  she  knew  might  blossom  into  Love  Immortal. 

He  was  young,  he  was  young.  He  wanted  life,  all  he 
could  get  of  it.  And  he  left  the  higher  things  because  as  yet 
he  was  undeveloped.  He  had  not  felt  that  hunger  of  the 
spirit  which  only  that  which  is  spiritual  can  satisfy.  It 
would  come.  She  was  sure  it  would  come.  She  was 
watching  for  it  day  by  day.  His  wings  were  still  untried. 
He  did  not  want  to  soar.  But  by-and-bye  the  heights 
would  begin  to  draw  him.  And  then — then  they  would  soar 
together.  But  till  that  day  dawned,  her  love  must  be  the 
guardian  of  them  both. 


That  Which  Is  Holy  359 

There  came  a  slight  sound  in  the  room  behind  her.  She 
turned  swiftly.  "Piers!" 

He  was  close  to  her.  As  she  started  to  her  feet  his  arms 
enclosed  her.  He  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  holding  her 
fast  pressed  to  him. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  you,  "  he  said.  "But — when  I 
saw  you  were  praying — I  had  to  come  in.  I  wanted  so 
awfully  to  know — if  you  would  get  an  answer. ' ' 

"But,  Piers!"  she  protested. 

He  kissed  her  lips.  "Don't  be  angry,  Avery!  I'm  not 
scoffing.  I  don't  know  enough  about  God  to  scoff  at  Him. 
Tell  me !  Do  you  ever  get  an  answer,  or  are  you  content  to 
go  jogging  on  like  the  rest  of  the  world  without?" 

She  made  an  effort  to  free  herself.  "Do  you  know, 
Piers,  I  can't  talk  to  you  about — holy  things — when  you  are 
holding  me  like  this.  " 

He  looked  stubborn.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
holy  things.  I'm  not  a  believer.  At  least  I  don't  believe  in 
prayer.  I  can  get  all  I  want  without  it. " 

"I  wonder!"  Avery  said. 

She  was  still  trying  to  disengage  herself,  but  as  he  held 
her  with  evident  determination  she  desisted. 

There  followed  a  silence  during  which  her  grey  eyes  met 
his  black  ones  steadily,  fearlessly,  resolutely.  Then  in  a 
whisper  Piers  spoke,  his  lips  still  close  to  hers.  "Tell  me 
what  you  were  praying  for,  sweetheart ! ' ' 

She  smiled  a  little.  "No,  dear,  not  now!  It's  nothing 
that's  in  your  power  to  give  me.  Shall  we  sit  on  the 
window-seat  and  talk?" 

But  Piers  was  loth  to  let  her  go  from  his  arms.  He  knelt 
beside  her  as  she  sat,  still  holding  her. 

She  put  her  arm  round  his  neck.  "Do  you  remember 
your  Star  of  Hope?"  she  asked  him  softly. 

"  I  remember, "  said  Piers,  but  he  did  not  turn  his  eyes  to 
the  night  sky ;  they  still  dwelt  upon  her. 


360  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery's  face  was  toward  the  window.  The  drapery  fell 
loosely  away  from  her  throat.  He  stooped  forward  suddenly 
and  pressed  his  hot  lips  upon  her  soft  white  flesh. 

A  little  tremor  went  through  her  at  his  touch;  she  kept 
her  face  turned  from  him. 

"Have  you  really  got  all  you  want?"  she  asked  after  i. 
moment.  "Is  there  nothing  at  all  left  to  hope  for ? " 

"Didn't  we  drink  to  the  future  only  to-night?"  he  said. 

His  arms  were  drawing  her,  but  still  she  kept  her  face 
turned  away.  "Did  you  mean  anything  by  that?"  she 
asked.  "Were  you — were  you  thinking  of  anything 
special?" 

He  did  not  at  once  answer  her.  He  waited  till  with  an 
odd  reluctance  she  turned  her  face  towards  him.  Then: 
"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  he  said. 

Her  heart  gave  a  quick  throb.  "  Of  me  ? "  she  questioned 
below  her  breath. 

"Of  you,"  he  said  again.  "For  myself,  I  have  got  all  I 
can  ever  hope  for.  But  you — you  would  be  awfully  happy, 
wouldn't  you,  if — " 

"If — "  murmured  Avery. 

He  stooped  again  to  kiss  her  white  bosom.  "And  it 
would  be  a  bond  between  us, "  he  said,  as  if  continuing  some 
remark  he  had  not  uttered. 

She  turned  more  fully  to  him.  "Do  we  need  that?"  she 
said. 

"We  might — some  day,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  that 
somehow  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  protest.  "Anyhow, 
my  darling,  I  knew, — I  guessed.  And  I'm  awfully  glad — for 
your  sake." 

She  bent  towards  him.  "Not  for  your  own?"  she 
whispered  pleadingly. 

He  laid  his  head  suddenly  down  upon  her  knees  with  a 
sound  that  was  almost  a  groan. 

"Piers!"  she  said  in  distress. 


That  Which  Is  Holy  361 

He  was  silent  for  a  space,  then  slowly  raised  himself. 
She  had  a  sense  of  shock  at  sight  of  his  face.  It  looked 
haggard  and  grey,  as  if  a  withering  hand  had  touched  him 
and  shorn  away  his  youth. 

"Avery, — oh,  A  very, "  he  said,  "I  wish  I  were  a  better 
man!" 

It  was  a  cry  wrung  from  his  soul — the  hungry-cry  which 
she  had  longed  to  hear,  and  it  sent  a  great  joy  through  her 
even  though  it  wrung  her  own  soul  also. 

She  bent  to  him  swiftly.  "Dearest,  we  all  feel  that 
sometimes.  And  I  think  it  is  the  Hand  of  God  upon  us, 
opening  our  eyes." 

He  did  not  answer  or  make  any  response  to  her  words. 
Only  as  he  clasped  her  to  him,  she  heard  him  sigh.  And 
she  knew  that,  strive  as  he  might  to  silence  that  soul-craving 
with  earthly  things,  it  would  beat  on  unsatisfied  through 
all.  She  came  nearer  to  understanding  him  that  night 
that  ever  before. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    FIRST    GUEST 

"  T  AM  greatly  honoured  to  be   your  first  guest,"   said 

1     Crowther. 

"The  honour  is  ours  to  get  you, "  Avery  declared. 

She  sat  on  the  terrace  whither  she  had  conducted  him, 
and  smiled  at  him  across  the  tea-table  with  eyes  of  shining 
friendship. 

Crowther  smiled  back,  thinking  to  himself  how  pleasant 
a  picture  she  made.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  her  face 
was  flushed  and  happy,  even  girlish  in  its  animation. 
There  was  a  ring  of  laughter  in  her  voice  when  she  talked 
that  was  very  good  to  hear.  She  had  herself  just  brought 
him  from  the  station  in  Piers'  little  two-seater,  and  her 
obvious  pleasure  at  meeting  him  still  hung  about  her,  making 
her  very  fair  to  see. 

"Piers  is  so  busy  just  now, "  she  told  him.  "He  sent  all 
sorts  of  messages.  He  had  to  go  over  to  Wardenhurst  to 
see  Colonel  Rose.  The  M.  P.  for  this  division  retired  at 
the  end  of  the  Session,  and  Piers  is  to  stand  for  the  con 
stituency.  They  talk  of  having  the  election  in  October. " 

' '  Will  he  get  in  ? "  asked  Crowther,  still  watching  her  with 
friendly  appreciation  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  expect  so.  He  gets  most  things 
that  he  sets  his  heart  on.  His  grandfather — you  knew 
Sir  Beverley? — was  so  anxious  that  he  should  enter  Par 
liament." 

362 


The  First  Guest  363 

"Yes,  I  knew  Sir  Beverley, "  said  Crowther.  "He 
thought  the  world  of  Piers." 

"And  Piers  of  him,"  said  A  very. 

"Ah!  Was  it  a  great  blow  to  him  when  the  old  man 
died?" 

"A  very  great  blow, "  she  answered  soberly.  "That  was 
the  main  reason  for  our  marrying  so  suddenly.  The  poor 
boy  was  so  lonely  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  him  by  himself 
in  this  great  house." 

"He  was  very  lucky  to  get  you,"  said  Crowther  gravely. 

She  smiled.  "I  was  lucky  too.  Don't  you  think  so? 
I  never  in  my  wildest  dreams  pictured  such  a  home  as  this 
for  myself." 

A  great  magnolia  climbed  the  house  behind  her  with 
creamy  flowers  that  shed  their  lemon  fragrance  all  about 
them.  Crowther  compared  her  in  his  own  mind  to  the 
wonderful  blossoms.  She  was  so  sweet,  so  pure,  yet  also  in 
a  fashion  so  splendid. 

"I  think  it  is  a  very  suitable  setting  for  you,  Lady 
Evesham!"  he  said. 

She  made  a  quick,  impulsive  movement  towards  him. 
"Do  call  me  Avery!"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "It  certainly 
seems  more  natural.  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  home 
of  yours,  may  I  ask?" 

"Only  a  fortnight,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Our  honey 
moon  took  ten  weeks.  Piers  wanted  to  make  it  ten  years; 
but  the  harvest  was  coming  on,  and  I  knew  he  ought  to  come 
back  and  see  what  was  happening.  And  then  Mr.  Ferrars 
resigned  his  seat,  and  it  became  imperative.  But  isn't  it 
a  beautiful  place? "  she  ended.  "  I  felt  overwhelmed  by  the 
magnificence  of  it  at  first,  but  I  am  getting  used  to  it  now." 

"A  glorious  place,"  agreed  Crowther.  "Piers  must  be 
very  proud  of  it.  Have  you  begun  to  have  many  visitors 

yet?" 


364  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  not  many.  Nearly  all  the 
big  people  have  gone  to  Scotland.  Piers  says  they  will 
come  later,  but  I  shall  not  mind  them  so  much  then.  I 
shall  feel  less  like  an  interloper  by  that  time.  " 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  feel  like  that,"  said 
Crowther.  Avery  smiled.  "Well,  all  the  little  people 
think  that  I  set  out  to  catch  Piers  for  his  money  and  his 
title." 

"  Does  what  the  little  people  think  have  any  weight  with 
you?"  asked  Crowther. 

She  flushed  faintly  under  the  kindly  directness  of  his  gaze. 
"Not  really,  I  suppose.  But  one  can't  quite  shake  off  the 
feeling  of  it.  There  is  the  Vicar  for  instance.  He  has  never 
liked  me.  He  congratulates  me  almost  every  time  we  meet." 

"Evidently  a  cad,"  commented  Crowther  in  his  quiet 
way. 

Avery  laughed  a  little.  She  had  always  liked  this  man's 
plain  speech.  "He  is  not  the  only  one,"  she  said. 

"But  you  have  friends — real  friends — also?"  he  ques 
tioned. 

"Oh  yes;  indeed!  The  Vicarage  children  and  their 
mother  are  the  greatest  friends  I  have."  Avery  spoke 
with  warmth.  "The  children  are  having  tea  down  in  one 
of  the  cornfields  now.  We  must  go  and  see  them  presently. 
You  are  fond  of  children,  I  know." 

"I  sort  of  love  them,"  said  Crowther  with  his  slow,  kind 
smile.  "Ah,  Piers,  my  lad,  are  you  trying  to  steal  a  march 
on  us?  Did  you  think  I  didn't  know?" 

He  spoke  without  raising  his  voice.  Avery  turned 
sharply  to  see  her  husband  standing  on  the  steps  of  a  room 
above  them.  One  glimpse  she  had  of  Piers'  face  ere  he 
descended  and  joined  them,  and  an  odd  feeling  of  dismay 
smote  her.  For  that  one  fleeting  moment  there  seemed 
to  be  something  of  the  cornered  beast  in  his  aspect. 

But  as  he  came  straight  down  to  Crowther  and  wrung  his 


The  First  Guest  365 

hand,  his  dark  face  was  smiling  a  welcome.  He  was  in 
riding-dress,  and  looked  very  handsome  and  young. 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  I?  Awfully  pleased  to  see 
you!  Sorry  I  couldn't  get  back  sooner.  I've  been  riding 
like  the  devil.  A  very  explained,  did  she?"  He  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  tossed  an  envelope  into  her  lap. 
"An  invitation  to  Ina  Rose's  wedding  on  the  twenty-third. 
That's  the  week  after  next.  They  are  sorry  they  can't  man 
age  to  call  before,  hope  you'll  understand  and  go.  I  said 
you  should  do  both.  " 

"Thank  you,  Piers."  Avery  laid  the  envelope  aside 
unopened.  She  did  not  feel  that  he  was  being  very  cordial 
to  Crowther.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  go." 

"Oh  yes,  you  will,"  he  rejoined  quickly.  "You  must. 
It's  an  order,  see?"  His  dark  eyes  laughed  at  her,  but 
there  was  more  than  a  tinge  of  imperiousness  in  his  manner. 
"Well,  Crowther,  how  are  you?  Getting  ready  to  scatter 
the  Philistines?  Don't  give  me  milk,  Avery!  You  know 
I  hate  it  at  this  time  of  day. " 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  had  never  used  that 
impatient  tone  to  her  before.  "I  didn't  know,"  she 
observed  simply,  as  she  handed  him  his  cup. 

"Well,  you  know  now,"  he  rejoined  with  an  irritable 
frown.  "Hurry  up,  Crowther!  I  want  you  to  come  and 
see  the  crops." 

Avery  was  literally  amazed  by  his  manner.  He  had 
never  been  so  frankly  and  unjustifiably  rude  to  her  be 
fore.  She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  something  had 
happened  at  the  Roses'  to  annoy  him;  but  that  he 
should  visit  his  annoyance  upon  her  was  a  wholly  new 
experience. 

He  drank  his  tea,  talking  hard  to  Crowther  the  while, 
and  finally  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  in  a  ferment  to  be  gone. 

"Won't  Lady  Evesham  come  too?"  asked  Crowther,  as 
he  rose. 


366  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery  rose  also.  "Yes,  I  have  promised  the  children 
to  join  them  in  the  cornfield,"  she  said. 

Piers  said  nothing ;  but  she  had  a  very  distinct  impression 
that  he  would  have  preferred  her  to  remain  behind.  The 
wonder  crossed  her  mind  if  he  were  jealous  because  he 
could  no  longer  have  her  exclusively  to  himself. 

They  walked  down  through  the  park  to  the  farm.  It  was 
a  splendid  August  evening.  The  reaping  was  still  in 
progress,  and  the  whirr  of  the  machine  rose  slumbrous 
through  the  stillness.  But  of  the  Vicarage  children  there 
was  at  first  no  sign. 

Avery  searched  for  them  in  surprise.  She  had  sent  a 
picnic  basket  down  to  the  farm  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  and 
she  had  expected  to  find  them  enjoying  the  contents  thereof 
in  a  shady  corner.  But  for  a  time  she  searched  in  vain. 

"They  must  have  gone  home, "  said  Piers. 

But  she  did  not  believe  they  would  have  left  without 
seeing  her,  and  she  went  to  the  farm  to  make  enquiries. 

Here  she  heard  that  the  picnic-party  had  taken  place 
and  that  the  basket  had  been  brought  back  by  one  of  the 
men,  but  for  some  reason  the  children  had  evidently  gone 
home  early,  for  they  had  not  been  seen  since. 

Avery  wanted  to  run  to  the  Vicarage  and  ascertain  if  all 
were  well,  but  Piers  vetoed  this. 

"It's  too  hot,"  he  said.  "And  you'll  only  come  in  for 
some  row  with  the  Reverend  Stephen.  I  won't  have  you 
go,  Avery.  Stay  with  us!" 

His  tone  was  peremptory,  and  Avery  realized  that  his 
assumption  of  authority  was  intentional.  A  rebellious 
spirit  awoke  within  her,  but  she  checked  it.  Something 
had  gone  wrong,  she  was  sure.  He  would  tell  her  presently 
what  it  was. 

She  yielded  therefore  to  his  desire  and  remained  with 
them.  They  spent  a  considerable  time  in  the  neighbour 
hood  of  the  farm,  in  all  of  which  Crowther  took  a  keen 


The  First  Guest  367 

interest.  Avery  tried  to  be  interested  too,  but  Piers' 
behaviour  troubled  and  perplexed  her.  He  seemed  to  be 
all  on  edge,  and  more  than  once  his  manner  to  Crowther  also 
verged  upon  abruptness. 

They  were  leaving  the  farm  to  turn  homeward  when 
there  came  to  Avery  the  sound  of  flying  feet  along  the  lane 
outside.  She  went  to  the  gate,  and  beheld  Gracie,  her  face 
crimson  with  heat,  racing  towards  her. 

Avery  moved  to  meet  her,  surprised  by  her  sudden 
appearance.  She  was  still  more  surprised  when  Gracie 
reached  her,  flung  tempestuous  arms  about  her,  and  broke 
into  stormy  crying  on  her  breast. 

"My  dear!  My  dear!  What  has  happened ?"  Avery 
asked  in  distress. 

But  Gracie  was  for  the  moment  quite  beyond  speech. 
She  hung  upon  Avery,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Piers  came  swiftly  down  the  path.  "Why,  Pixie,  what's 
the  matter?"  he  said. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  drawing  her  gently  to 
lean  against  himself,  for  in  her  paroxysm  of  weeping  she 
had  thrown  herself  upon  Avery  with  childish  unrestraint. 

"Who's  been  bullying  you,  Pixie?"  he  said. 

"Nobody!  Nobody!"  sobbed  Gracie.  She  transferred 
herself  to  his  arms  almost  mechanically,  so  overwhelming 
was  her  woe.  "Oh,  it's  dreadful!  It's  dreadful!"  she  cried. 

He  patted  her  soothingly,  his  cheek  against  her  fair  hair. 
"Well,  what  is  it,  kiddie?  Let's  hear!  One  of  the 
youngsters  in  trouble,  what?  Not  Jeanie,  I  say?" 

"  No,  no,  no !  It's — Mike. "  The  name  came  out  with  a 
great  burst  of  tears. 

"Mike!"  Piers  looked  at  Avery,  mystified  for  the 
moment.  "Ah,  to  be  sure!  The  dog!  Well,  what's 
happened  to  him?  He  isn't  dead,  what?" 

"He  is!  He  is!"  sobbed  Gracie.  "He — he  has  been 
killed — by — by  his  own  chain!" 


368  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"What!"  said  Piers  again. 

Gaspingly  she  told  him  the  tragic  tale.  "Father  always 
will  have  him  kept  on  the  chain,  and — and " 

"An  infernally  cruel  thing  to  do!"  broke  indignantly 
from  Piers. 

"Yes,  we — we  all  said  so.  And  we  tried  to  give  him 
little  outings  sometimes  to — to  make  up.  But  to-day — 
somehow — we  forgot  him,  and — and  he  must  have  seen  us 
go,  and  jumped  the  wall  after  us.  Pat  and  I  went  back 
afterwards  to  fetch  him,  and  found  him — found  him — 
oh,  Piers!"  She  cried  out  in  sudden  agony  and  said  no 
more. 

"Choked?"  said  Piers.  "Choked  with  his  own  chain, 
poor  devil!"  He  looked  up  again  at  A  very  with  something 
unfathomable  in  his  eyes.  "Oh,  don't  cry  so,  child!"  he 
said.  "A  chained  creature  is  happier  dead — a  thousand 
times  happier!" 

He  spoke  passionately,  so  passionately  that  Grade's  wild 
grief  was  stayed.  She  lifted  her  face,  all  streaming  with 
tears.  "  Do  you  think  so  really  ?" 

"Of  course  I  think  so,  "  he  said.  "Life  on  a  chain  is  misery 
unspeakable.  No  one  with  any  heart  could  condemn  a 
dog  to  that!  It's  the  refinement  of  cruelty.  Don't  wish  the 
poor  beast  back  again!  Be  thankful  he's  gone!" 

The  vehemence  of  his  speech  was  such  that  it  carried 
conviction  even  to  Gracie's  torn  heart.  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  something  of  wonder  and  of  awe.  "If  only — he 
hadn't  suffered  so!"  she  whispered. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  forehead  and  smoothed  back  the 
clustering  hair.  "You  poor  kid!"  he  said  pityingly. 
"You've  suffered  much  more  than  he  did  at  the  end.  But 
it's  over.  Don't  fret!  Don't  fret!" 

Gracie  lifted  trembling  lips  to  be  kissed.  He  was  drying 
her  eyes  with  his  own  handkerchief  as  tenderly  as  any 
woman.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  Look  here!  I'll 


The  First  Guest  369 

walk  home  with  you, "  he  said.  "  Avery,  you  go  back  with 
Crowther!  I  shan't  be  late." 

Avery  turned  at  once.  The  sight  of  Piers  soothing  the 
little  girl's  distress  had  comforted  her  subtly.  She  felt  that 
his  mood  had  softened. 

"Won't  you  go  too?"  said  Crowther,  as  she  joined  him. 
"Please  don't  stay  on  my  account!  I  am  used  to  being 
alone,  and  I  can  find  my  own  way  back. " 

"Oh  no!"  she  said.  "I  had  better  come  with  you.  I 
shan't  be  wanted  now." 

They  started  to  walk  back  among  the  shocks  of  corn; 
but  they  had  not  gone  many  yards  when  Gracie  came 
running  after  them,  reached  them,  flung  her  arms  about 
Avery. 

"Good-bye,  darling  Avery!"  she  said. 

Avery  held  her  close.  She  was  sobbing  still,  but  the 
first  wild  anguish  of  her  grief  was  past. 

"Good-bye,  darling!"  Avery  whispered,  after  a  moment. 

Gracie's  arms  tightened.  "You  think  like  Piers  does?" 
she  murmured.  "You  think  poor  Mikey  is  happier  now?" 

Avery  paused  an  instant.  The  memory  of  Piers'  look 
as  he  had  uttered  the  words:  "Choked  with  his  own  chain, 
poor  devil ! "  seemed  to  grip  her  heart.  Then :  "Yes,  dearie," 
she  said  softly.  "I  think  as  Piers  does.  I  am  glad — for 
poor  Mikey's  sake — that  his  troubles  are  over." 

"Then  I'll  try  and  be  glad  too,"  sobbed  poor  Gracie. 
"But  it's  very,  very  difficult.  Pat  and  I  loved  him  so, 
and  he — he  loved  us.  " 

"  My  dear,  that  love  won't  die,  "  Avery  said  gently. 

"The  gift  immortal,"  said  Crowther.  "The  only  thing 
that  counts. " 

She  looked  round  at  him  quickly,  but  his  eyes  were  gazing 
straight  into  the  sunset — steadfast  eyes  that  saw  to  the 
very  heart  of  things. 

"And  Life  in  Death,"  he  added  quietly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   PRISONER   IN   THE   DUNGEON 

A  VERY    was   already  dressed   when   she   heard    Piers 
enter  his  room  and  say  a  word  to  Victor.     She  stood 
by  her  window  waiting.     It  was  growing  late,  but  she  felt 
sure  he  would  come  to  her. 

She  heard  Victor  bustling  about  in  his  resilient  fashion, 
and  again  Piers'  voice,  somewhat  curt  and  peremptory, 
reached  her  through  the  closed  door.  He  was  evidently 
dressing  at  full  speed.  She  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
disappointment,  though  she  kept  it  at  bay,  reminding 
herself  that  they  must  not  keep  their  guest  waiting. 

But  presently,  close  upon  the  dinner-hour,  she  went 
herself  to  the  door  of  her  husband's  room  and  knocked. 

His  voice  answered  her  immediately,  but  it  still  held  that 
unwonted  quality  of  irritation  in  it.  "Oh,  Avery,  I  can't 
let  you  in.  I'm  sorry.  Victor's  here." 

Something — a  small,  indignant  spirit — sprang  up  within 
her  in  response.  "Send  Victor  away!"  she  said.  "I  want 
to  come  in. " 

"I  shall  be  late  if  I  do, "  he  made  answer.  "I'm  horribly 
late  as  it  is." 

But  for  once  Avery's  habitual  docility  was  in  abeyance. 
"Send  Victor  away!"  she  reiterated. 

She  heard  Piers  utter  an  impatient  word,  and  then  in  a 
moment  or  two  he  raised  his  voice  again.  ' '  Come  in  then ! 
What  is  it?" 

370 


The  Prisoner  in  the  Dungeon        371 

She  opened  the  door  with  an  odd  unaccustomed  feeling  of 
trepidation. 

He  was  standing  in  his  shirt-sleeves  brushing  his  hair 
vigorously  at  the  table.  His  back  was  towards  her, 
but  the  glass  reflected  his  face,  and  she  saw  that  his 
brows  were  drawn  into  a  single  hard  black  line.  His 
lips  were  tightly  compressed.  He  looked  undeniably 
formidable. 

"Don't  you  want  me,  Piers?"  she  asked,  pausing  in  the 
doorway. 

His  eyes  flashed  up  to  hers  in  the  glass,  glowing  with  the 
smouldering  fire,  oddly  fitful,  oddly  persistent.  "Come 
in!"  he  said,  without  turning.  "What  is  it?" 

She  went  forward  to  him.  "Did  you  go  to  the  Vicar 
age  ? ' '  she  asked .  ' '  Are  they  in  great  trouble  ? ' ' 

She  thought  she  saw  relief  in  his  face  at  her  words.  "  Oh 
yes, "  he  said.  "Mrs.  Lorimer  crying  as  usual,  Jeanie  try 
ing  to  comfort  her.  I  did  my  best  to  hearten  them  up' 
but  you  know  what  they  are.  I  say,  sit  down!" 

"No,  I  am  going,"  she  answered  gently.  "Did  you  get 
on  all  right  this  afternoon?" 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said  again.  "By  the  way,  we  must  get  a 
wedding-present  for  Ina  Rose  and  another  for  Guyes. 
You'll  come  to  the  wedding,  Avery?" 

"  If  you  wish  it,  dear, "  she  said  quietly. 

He  threw  down  his  brushes  and  turned  fully  to  her. 
"Avery  darling,  I'm  sorry  I  was  bearish  this  afternoon. 
You  won't  punish  me  for  it?" 

"Punish  you,  my  own  Piers!"  she  said. 

"Because  I  can't  stand  it,"  he  said  recklessly.  "There 
are  certain  forms  of  torture  that  drive  a  man  crazy.  Bear 
with  me — all  you  can!" 

His  quick  pleading  touched  her,  went  straight  to  her 
heart.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  lifting  her  face 
for  his  kiss.  "It's  all  right,  dear,  "  she  said. 


372  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Is  it?"  he  said.  "Is  it?"  He  took  her  face  between 
his  hands,  gazing  down  at  her  with  eyes  of  passionate 
craving.  "Say  you  love  me!"  he  urged  her  suddenly. 
"Say  it!" 

Her  heart  sank  within  her.  She  made  a  movement  as  if 
to  withdraw  herself;  but  he  caught  her  fiercely  to  him,  his 
hot  lips  sought  and  held  her  own.  She  felt  as  if  a  flame 
encompassed  her,  scorching  her,  consuming  her. 

"Say  you  love  me!"  he  whispered  again  between  those 
fiery  kisses.  "Avery,  I  must  have  your  soul  as  well.  Do 
more  than  bear  with  me !  Want  me — want  me ! ' ' 

There  was  more  than  passion  in  the  words.  They  came 
to  her  like  a  cry  of  torment.  She  braced  herself  to  meet 
his  need,  realizing  it  to  be  greater  than  she  knew. 

"Piers!  Piers!"  she  said.  "I  am  altogether  yours.  I 
love  you.  Don't  you  know  it  ?" 

He  drew  a  deep,  quivering  breath.  "Yes — yes,  I  do 
know  it, "  he  said.  "But — but — Avery,  I  would  go  through 
hell  for  you.  You  are  my  religion,  my  life,  my  all.  I  am 
not  that  to  you.  If — if  I  were  dragged  down,  you  wouldn't 
follow  me  in. " 

His  intensity  shocked  her,  but  she  would  not  have  him 
know  it.  She  sought  to  calm  his  agitation  though  she  pos 
sessed  no  key  thereto.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  are 
talking  wildly.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  to  me,  and 
I  can't  even  begin  to  tell  you.  But  surely — by  now — you 
can  take  me  on  trust. " 

He  made  a  curious  sound  that  was  half -laugh,  half -groan. 
"You  don't  know  yourself,  Avery,"  he  said. 

"But  you  don't  doubt  my  love,  Piers,"  she  protested 
very  earnestly.  "You  know  that  it  would  never  fail  you.  " 

"Your  love  is  like  the  moonlight,  Avery,"  he  answered. 
"It  is  all  whiteness  and  purity.  But  mine — mine  is  red 
like  the  fire  that  is  under  the  earth.  And  though  sometimes 
it  scorches  you,  it  never  quite  reaches  you.  You  stoop  to 


The  Prisoner  in  the  Dungeon        373 

me,  but  you  can't  lift  me.  You  are  too  far  above.  And 
the  moonlight  doesn't  always  reach  to  the  prisoner  in  the 
dungeon  either. " 

"All  the  same  dear,  don't  be  afraid  that  it  will  ever  fail 
you!"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  again,  hotly,  lingeringly,  and  let  her  go. 
"Perhaps  I  shall  remind  you  of  that  one  day,"  he  said. 

All  through  dinner  his  spirits  were  recklessly  high.  He 
talked  incessantly,  playing  the  host  with  a  brilliant  ease 
that  betrayed  no  sign  of  strain.  He  did  not  seem  to  have 
a  care  in  the  world,  and  Avery  marvelled  at  his  versatility. 

She  herself  felt  weary  and  strangely  sick  at  heart.  Those 
few  words  of  his  had  been  a  bitter  revelation  to  her.  She 
knew  now  what  was  wanting  between  them.  He  desired 
passion  from  her  rather  than  love.  He  had  no  use  for 
spiritual  things.  And  she, — she  knew  that  she  shrank 
inwardly  whenever  she  encountered  that  fierce,  untamed 
desire  of  his.  It  fettered  her  spirit,  it  hung  upon  her  like 
an  overpowering  weight.  She  could  not  satisfy  his  wild 
Southern  nature.  He  crushed  her  love  with  the  very 
fierceness  of  his  possession  and  ever  cried  to  her  for  more. 
He  seemed  insatiable.  Even  though  she  gave  him  all  she 
had,  he  still  hungered,  still  strove  feverishly  to  possess 
himself  of  something  further. 

She  felt  worn  out,  body  and  soul,  and  she  could  not  hide 
it.  She  was  unspeakably  glad  when  at  length  the  meal  was 
over  and  she  was  able  to  leave  the  table. 

Crowther  opened  the  door  for  her,  looking  at  her  with 
eyes  of  kindly  criticism. 

"You  look  tired,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  don't  sit  up 
late." 

She  smiled  at  him.  "Oh  no!  We  will  make  Piers  play 
to  us  presently,  and  then  I  will  say  good-night. " 

"Then  we  mustn't  keep  you  waiting  long, "  he  said.  " So 
Piers  is  a  musician,  is  he?  I  didn't  know." 


374  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,  Avery;  it's  late,"  said  Piers 
abruptly.  "  I  can't  play  to-night.  The  spirit  doesn't  move 
me. "  He  rose  from  the  table  with  a  careless  laugh.  "Say 
good-night  to  her,  Crowther,  and  let  her  go !  We  will  smoke 
in  the  garden." 

There  was  finality  in  his  tone,  its  lightness  notwithstand 
ing.  Again  there  came  to  Avery  the  impulse  to  rebel,  and 
again  instinctively  she  caught  it  back.  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  Crowther. 

"I  am  dismissed  then,"  she  said.     "Good-night!" 

His  smile  answered  hers.  He  looked  regretful,  but  very 
kindly.  "I  am  glad  to  see  Piers  takes  care  of  you, "  he  said. 

She  laughed  a  little  drearily  as  she  went  away,  making 
no  other  response. 

Crowther  turned  back  to  the  table  with  its  shaded  candles 
and  gleaming  wine.  He  saw  that  Piers'  glass  was  practically 
untouched. 

Piers  himself  was  searching  a  cabinet  for  cigars.  He 
found  what  he  sought,  and  turned  round  with  the  box  in 
his  hand. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  generally  smoke,"  he  said. 
*'  Will  you  try  one  of  these?  It's  a  hot  night.  We  may  as 
well  have  coffee  in  the  garden. " 

He  seemed  possessed  with  a  spirit  of  restlessness,  just  as  he 
had  been  on  that  night  at  the  Casino  in  the  spring.  Crowther, 
massive  and  self-contained,  observed  him  silently. 

They  went  out  on  to  the  terrace,  and  drank  their  coffee 
in  the  dewy  stillness.  But  even  there  Piers  could  not  sit 
still.  He  prowled  to  and  fro  eternally,  till  Crowther  set 
down  his  cup  and  joined  him,  pushing  a  quiet  hand  through 
his  arm. 

"It's  a  lovely  place  you've  got  here,  sonny,"  he  said;  "a 
regular  garden  of  Paradise.  I  almost  envy  you." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  do  that.  There's  a  serpent  in  every 
Eden, "  said  Piers,  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 


The  Prisoner  in  the  Dungeon        375 

He  did  not  seek  to  keep  Crowther  at  arm's  length,  but 
neither  did  he  seem  inclined  for  any  closer  intimacy.  His 
attitude  neither  invited  nor  repelled  confidence.  Yet 
Crowther  knew  intuitively  that  his  very  indifference  was 
in  itself  a  barrier  that  might  well  prove  insurmountable. 

He  walked  in  silence  while  Piers  talked  intermittently  of 
various  impersonal  matters,  drifting  at  length  into  silence 
himself. 

In  the  western  wing  of  the  house  a  light  burned  at  an 
upper  window,  and  Crowther,  still  quietly  observant,  noted 
"how  at  each  turn  Piers'  eyes  went  to  that  light  as  though 
drawn  by  some  magnetic  force. 

Gently  at  length  he  spoke.  "She  doesn't  look  altogether 
robust,  sonny. " 

Piers  started  sharply  as  if  something  had  pricked  him. 
"What?  Avery  do  you  mean?  No,  she  isn't  over  and 
above  strong — just  now." 

He  uttered  the  last  two  words  as  if  reluctantly,  yet  as  if 
some  measure  of  pride  impelled  him. 

Crowther's  hand  pressed  his  arm,  in  mute  sympathy. 
"You  are  right  to  take  care  of  her, "  he  said  simply.  "And 
Piers,  my  lad,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  to  know 
that  you  were  able  to  win  her  after  all.  I  somehow  felt  you 
would. " 

It  was  his  first  attempt  to  pass  that  intangible  barrier, 
and  it  failed.  Piers  disregarded  the  words  as  if  they  had  not 
reached  him. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  shall  let  her  stay  here  through  thft 
winter,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  sure  that  the  place  suits  her. 
It's  damp,  you  know;  good  hunting  and  so  on,  but  a  bit 
depressing  in  bad  weather.  Besides  I'd  rather  have  her 
under  a  town  doctor.  The  new  heir  arrives  in  March," 
he  said,  with  a  slight  laugh  that  struck  Crowther  as  un 
consciously  pathetic. 

"I'm  very  pleased  to  hear  it,  sonny,"  said  Crowther. 


376  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"May  he  be  the  first  of  many!  What  does  Avery  think 
about  it?  I'll  warrant  she's  pleased?" 

"Oh  yes,  she's  pleased  enough." 

"And  you,  lad?" 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  pleased  too, "  said  Piers,  but  his  tone  lacked 
complete  satisfaction  and  he  added  after  a  moment,  "I'd 
rather  have  had  her  to  myself  a  bit  longer.  I'm  a  selfish 
brute,  you  know,  Crowther.  I  want  all  I  can  get — and  even 
that's  hardly  enough  to  keep  me  from  starvation.," 

There  was  a  note  of  banter  in  his  voice,  but  there  was 
something  else  as  well  that  touched  Crowther's  kindly 
heart. 

"  I  don't  think  Avery  is  the  sort  of  woman  to  sacrifice  her 
husband  to  her  children, "  he  said.  "You  will  always  come 
first,  sonny, — if  I  know  her." 

"  I  couldn't  endure  anything  else,"  said  Piers,  with  sudden 
fire.  "She  is  the  mainspring  of  my  life." 

"And  you  of  hers,  "  said  Crowther. 

Piers  stopped  dead  in  his  walk  and  faced  him.  "No, — 
no,  I'm  not!"  he  said,  speaking  quickly,  unrestrainedly. 
"I'm  a  good  deal  to  her,  but  I'm  not  that.  She  gives, 
but  she  never  offers.  If  I  went  off  on  a  journey  round 
the  world  to-morrow,  she'd  see  me  go  quite  cheerfully, 
and  she'd  wait  serenely  till  I  came  back  again.  She'd 
never  fret.  Above  all,  she'd  never  dream  of  coming  to 
look  for  me. " 

The  passionate  utterance  went  into  a  sound  that  re 
sembled  a  laugh,  but  it  was  a  sound  of  such  bitterness 
that  Crowther  was  strongly  moved. 

He  put  his  hand  on  Piers'  shoulder  and  gave  it  an  admoni 
tory  shake.  "My  dear  lad,  don't  be  a  fool!"  he  said,  with 
slow  force.  "You're  consuming  your  own  happiness — and 
hers  too.  You  can't  measure  a  woman's  feelings  like  that. 
They  are  immeasurable.  You  can't  even  begin  to  fathom 
a  woman's  restraint — a  woman's  reserve.  How  can  she 


The  Prisoner  in  the  Dungeon        377 

offer  when  you  are  always  demanding?  As  to  her  love,  it  is 
probably  as  infinitely  great,  as  infinitely  deep,  as  infinitely 
selfless,  as  yours  is  passionate,  and  fierce  and  insatiable. 
There  are  big  possibilities  in  you,  Piers;  but  you're  not 
letting  'em  grow.  It  would  have  done  you  good  to  have 
been  kept  waiting  ten  years  or  more.  You're  spoilt;  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  You  got  your  heart's  desire 
too  easily.  You  think  this  world  is  your  own  damn'  play 
ground.  And  it  isn't.  Understand?  You're  put  here  to 
work,  not  play;  to  develop  yourself,  not  batten  on  other 
people.  You  won  her  like  a  man  in  the  face  of  desperate 
odds.  You  paid  a  heavy  price  for  her.  But  even  so,  you 
don't  deserve  to  keep  her  if  you  forget  that  she  has  paid  too. 
By  Heaven,  Piers,  she  must  have  loved  you  a  mighty  lot  to 
have  done  it!" 

He  paused,  for  Piers  had  made  a  sharp,  involuntary 
movement  as  of  a  man  in  intolerable  pain.  He  almost 
wrenched  himself  from  Crowther's  hand,  and  walked 
to  the  low  wall  of  the  terrace.  Here  he  stood  for 
many  seconds  quite  motionless,  gazing  down  over  the  quiet 
garden. 

Finally  he  swung  round,  and  looked  at  Crowther.  "Yes, " 
he  said,  in  an  odd  tone  as  of  one  repeating  something  learned 
by  heart.  "  I've  got  to  remember  that,  haven't  I  ?  Thanks 
for — reminding  me!"  He  stopped,  seemed  to  collect  him 
self,  moved  slowly  forward.  "You're  a  good  chap,  Crow 
ther,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  you've  never  got  married 
yourself,  what?" 

Crowther  waited  for  him  quietly,  in  his  eyes  that  look  of 
the  man  who  has  gazed  for  long  over  the  wide  spaces  of  the 
earth. 

"I  never  married,  sonny,"  he  said,  "because  I  had 
nothing  to  offer  to  the  woman  I  cared  for,  and  so — she 
never  knew. " 

"By  gad,  old  chap,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Piers  impulsively. 


378  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Crowther  held  out  a  steady  hand.  "I'm  happy  enough, " 
he  said  simply.  "  I've  got — all  I  want. " 

"All?"  echoed  Piers  incredulously. 

Crowther  was  smiling.  He  lifted  his  face  to  the  night 
sky.  ' '  Yes,— thank  God,— all ! "  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE     SWORD     FALLS 

AS  Miss  Whalley  had  predicted,  Ina  Rose's  wedding  was 
a  very  grand  affair  indeed.  Everyone  who  was  any 
one  attended  it,  and  a  good  many  besides.  It  took  place 
in  the  midst  of  a  spell  of  sultry  weather,  during  which  the 
sun  shone  day  after  day  with  brazen  strength  and  the  heat 
was  intense. 

It  was  the  sort  of  weather  Piers  revelled  in.  It  suited 
his  tropical  nature.  But  it  affected  Avery  very  differently. 
All  her  customary  energy  wilted  before  it,  and  yet  she  was 
strangely  restless  also.  A  great  reluctance  to  attend  the 
wedding  possessed  her,  wherefore  she  could  not  have  said. 
But  for  some  reason  Piers  was  determined  that  she  should 
go.  He  was  even  somewhat  tyrannical  on  the  subject,  and 
rather  than  have  a  discussion  Avery  had  yielded  the  point. 
For  Piers  was  oddly  difficult  in  those  days.  Crowther's 
visit,  which  had  barely  run  into  forty-eight  hours,  seemed  to 
have  had  a  disquieting  effect  upon  him.  There  had  de 
veloped  a  curious,  new-born  mastery  in  his  attitude  towards 
her,  which  she  sometimes  found  it  hard  to  endure.  She 
missed  the  chivalry  of  the  early  days.  She  missed  the 
sweetness  of  his  boyish  adoration. 

She  did  not  understand  him,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  not 
happy.  He  never  took  her  into  his  confidence,  never 
alluded  by  word  or  sign  to  the  change  which  he  must  have 
realized  that  she  could  not  fail  to  notice.'  And  Avery  on 

379 


380  The  Bars  of  Iron 

her  part  made  no  further  effort  to  open  the  door  that  was  so 
strenuously  locked  against  her.  With  an  aching  heart  she 
gave  herself  to  the  weary  task  of  waiting,  convinced  that 
sooner  or  later  the  nature  of  the  barrier  which  he  so  stub 
bornly  ignored  would  be  revealed  to  her.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  extend  her  full  confidence  to  him.  Moreover, 
he  seemed  to  shrink  from  all  intimate  subjects.  Instinct 
ively  and  wholly  involuntarily  she  withdrew  into  herself, 
meeting  reserve  with  reserve.  Since  he  had  become  master 
rather  than  lover,  she  yielded  him  obedience,  and  she  hid 
away  her  love,  not  deliberately  or  intentionally,  but  rather 
with  the  impulse  to  protect  from  outrage  that  which  was 
holy.  He  was  not  asking  love  of  her  just  then. 

She  saw  but  little  of  him  during  the  day.  He  was  busy 
on  the  estate,  busy  with  the  coming  election,  busy  with  a 
hundred  and  one  matters  that  evidently  occupied  his 
thoughts  very  fully.  The  heat  seemed  to  imbue  him  with 
inexhaustible  energy.  He  never  seemed  tired  after  the 
most  strenuous  exertion.  He  never  slacked  for  a  moment  or 
seemed  to  have  a  moment  to  spare  till  the  day  was  done. 
He  was  generally  late  for  meals,  and  always  raced  through 
them  at  a  speed  that  Avery  was  powerless  to  emulate. 

He  was  late  on  the  day  of  Ina  Rose's  wedding,  so  late 
that  Avery,  who  had  dressed  in  good  time  and  was  lying  on 
the  sofa  in  her  room,  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  after  all 
abandoned  the  idea  of  going.  But  she  presently  heard 
him  race  into  his  own  room,  and  immediately  there  came 
the  active  patter  of  Victor's  feet  as  he  waited  upon  him. 

She  lay  still,  listening,  wishing  that  the  wedding  were 
over,  morbidly  dreading  the  heat  and  crush  and  excite 
ment  which  she  knew  awaited  her  and  to  which  she  felt 
utterly  unequal. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  then  impetuously,  without 
preliminary,  her  door  opened  and  Piers  stood  on  the  thresh 
old.  He  had  the  light  behind  him,  for  Avery  had  lowered 


The  Sword  Falls  381 

the  blinds,  and  so  seeing  him  she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden 
thrill  of  admiration.  For  he  stood  before  her  like  a  prince. 
She  had  never  seen  him  look  more  handsome,  more  patri 
cian,  more  tragically  like  that  woman  in  the  picture- 
frame  downstairs  who  smiled  so  perpetually  upon  them 
both. 

He  came  to  her  with  his  light,  athletic  tread,  stooped,  and 
lifted  her  bodily  in  his  arms.  He  held  her  a  moment  before 
he  set  her  on  her  feet,  and  then  in  his  hot,  fierce  way  he 
kissed  her. 

"You  beautiful  ghost!"  he  said. 

She  leaned  against  him,  breathing  rather  hard.  "I 
wish — I  wish  we  needn't  go, "  she  said. 

"Why?"  said  Piers. 

He  held  her  to  him,  gazing  down  at  her  with  his  eyes  of 
fiery  possession  that  always  made  her  close  her  own. 

"Because — because  it's  so  hot,"  she  said  quiveringly. 
"There  will  be  no  one  I  know  there.  And  I — and  I 

"That's  just  why  you  are  going,"  he  broke  in.  "Don't 
you  know  it  will  be  your  introduction  to  the  County? 
You've  got  to  find  your  footing,  Avery.  I'm  not  going  to 
have  my  wife  overlooked  by  anyone. " 

"  Oh,  my  dear, "  she  said,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "  I  don't  care 
two  straws  about  the  County.  They've  seen  me  once 
already,  most  of  them, — in  a  ditch  and  covered  with  mud. 
If  they  want  to  renew  the  acquaintance  they  can  come  and 
call." 

He  kissed  her  again  with  lips  that  crushed  her  own.  "We 
won't  stay  longer  than  we  can  help,"  he  said.  "You 
ought  to  go  out  more,  you  know.  It  isn't  good  for  you  to 
stay  in  this  gloomy  old  vault  all  day.  We  will  really  get  to* 
work  and  make  it  more  habitable  presently.  But  I've 
got  such  a  lot  on  hand  just  now. " 

"  I  know, "  she  said  quietly.  "  Please  don't  bother  about 
me !  Lunch  is  waiting  for  us.  Shall  we  go  ? " 


382  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  gave  her  a  quick,  keen  look,  as  if  he  suspected  her  of 
trying  to  elude  him;  but  he  let  her  go  without  a  word. 

They  descended  to  lunch,  and  later  went  forth  into  the 
blazing  sunshine  where  the  car  awaited  them.  Avcry 
sank  back  into  the  corner  and  closed  her  eyes.  Her  head  was 
aching  violently.  The  sense  of  reluctance  that  had  possessed 
her  for  so  long  amounted  almost  to  a  premonition  of  evil. 

"Avery!"  Her  husband's  voice,  curt,  imperious,  with 
just  a  tinge  of  anxiety  broke  in  upon  her.  "Are  you  feeling 
faint  or  anything?" 

She  looked  at  him.  He  was  watching  her  with  a  frown 
between  his  eyes. 

"No,  I  am  not  faint,"  she  said.  "The  heat  makes  my 
head  ache,  that's  all." 

"You  ought  to  see  a  doctor,"  he  said  restlessly.  "But 
not  that  ass,  Tudor.  We'll  go  up  to  town  to-morrow. 
Avcry,"  his  voice  softened  suddenly,  "I'm  sorry  I  dragged 
you  here  if  you  didn't  want  to  come. " 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him  instantly.  It  was  the  old 
Piers  who  had  spoken,  Piers  the  boy-lover  who  had  won  her 
heart  so  iiresistibly,  so  completely. 

He  held  the  hand  tightly,  and  she  thought  his  face 
quivered  a  little  as  he  said:  "I  don't  mean  to  be  a  tyrant, 
dear.  But  somehow — somehow,  you  know — I  can't  always 
help  it.  A  man  with  a  raging  thirst  will  take — anything 
he  can  get. " 

His  eyes  were  still  upon  her,  and  her  heart  quickened  to 
compassion  at  their  look.  They  seemed  to  cry  to  her  for 
mercy  out  of  a  depth  of  suffering  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  contemplate. 

She  leaned  swiftly  towards  him.  "Piers, — my  dear. — 
what  is  it?  What  is  it?"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

But  in  that  instant  the  look  vanished.  The  old  fierce 
flare  of  passion  blazed  forth  upon  her,  held  her  burningly, 
.till  finally  she  drew  back  before  it  in  mute  protest.  "So 


The  Sword  Falls  383 

you  will  forgive  me, "  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  con 
tain  something  of  a  jeering  quality.  "We  are  all  human, 
what?  You're  looking  better  now.  Egad,  Avery,  you're 
splendid!" 

Her  heart  died  within  her.  She  turned  her  face  away, 
as  one  ashamed. 

The  church  at  Wardenhurst  was  thronged  with  a  chatter 
ing  crowd  of  guests.  Piers  and  Avery  arrived  late,  so  late 
that  they  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  seats.  Tudor, 
who  was  present  and  looking  grimly  disgusted  with  him 
self,  spied  them  at  length,  and  gave  up  his  place  to  Avery.  ' 

The  bride  entered  almost  immediately  afterwards, 
young,  lovely,  with  the  air  of  a  queen  passing  through  her 
subjects.  Dick  Guyes  at  the  altar  was  shaking  with  nervous 
ness,  but  Ina  was  supremely  self-possessed.  She  even  sent 
a  smile  of  casual  greeting  to  Piers  as  she  went. 

She  maintained  her  attitude  of  complete  sang-froid 
throughout  the  service,  and  Piers  watched  her  critically 
with  that  secret  smile  at  the  corners  of  his  lips  which  was  not 
good  to  see. 

He  did  not  seem  aware  of  anyone  else  in  the  church  till 
the  service  was  over,  and  the  strains  of  the  Wedding  March 
were  crashing  through  the  building.  Then  very  suddenly 
he  turned  and  looked  at  his  wife — with  that  in  his  dark  eyes 
that  thrilled  her  to  the  soul. 

A  man's  voice  accosted  him  somewhat  abruptly.  "Are 
you  Sir  Piers  Evesham?  I'm  the  best  man.  They  want 
you  to  sign  the  register. " 

Piers  started  as  one  rudely  awakened  from  an  entrancing 
dream.  An  impatient  exclamation  rose  to  his  lips  which  he 
suppressed  rather  badly.  He  surveyed  the  man  who 
addressed  him  with  a  touch  of  hauteur. 

Avery  surveyed  him  also,  and  as  not  very  favourably 
impressed.  He  was  a  small  man  with  thick  sandy  eyebrows 
and  shifty  uncertain  eyes.  He  looked  hard  at  Piers  in 


384  The  Bars  of  Iron 

answer  to  the  latter's  haughty  regard,  and  Avery  became 
aware  of  a  sudden  sharp  change  in  his  demeanour  as  he  did 
so.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  in  blank  astonishment. 

"Hullo!"  he  ejaculated  softly.     "You!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Piers. 

It  was  a  challenge,  albeit  spoken  in  an  undertone.  He 
stood  like  a  man  transfixed  as  he  uttered  it.  There  came 
to  Avery  a  quick  hot  impulse  to  intervene,  to  protect  him 
from  some  hidden  danger,  she  knew  not  what,  that  had 
risen  like  a  serpent  in  his  path.  But  before  she  could 
take  any  action,  the  critical  moment  was  passed.  Piers 
had  recovered  himself. 

He  stepped  forward.     "All  right.     I  will  come, "  he  said. 

She  watched  him  move  away  in  the  direction  of  the  vestry 
with  that  free,  proud  gait  of  his,  and  a  great  coldness  came 
down  upon  her,  wrapping  her  round,  penetrating  to  her  very 
soul.  Who  was  that  man  with  the  shifty  eyes?  Why  had 
he  stared  at  Piers  so?  Above  all,  why  had  Piers  stood  with 
that  stiff  immobility  of  shock  as  though  he  had  been  stabbed 
in  the  back? 

A  voice  spoke  close  to  her.  "Lady  Evesham,  come  and 
wait  by  the  door!  There  is  more  air  there." 

She  turned  her  head  mechanically,  and  looked  at  Lennox 
Tudor  with  eyes  that  saw  not.  There  was  a  singing  in  her 
ears  that  made  the  crashing  chords  of  the  organ  sound 
confused  and  jumbled. 

His  hand  closed  firmly,  sustainingly,  upon  her  elbow. 

"Come  with  me!"  he  said. 

She  went  with  him  blindly,  unconscious  of  the  curious 
eyes  that  watched  her  go. 

He  led  her  quietly  down  the  church  and  into  the  porch. 
The  air  from  outside,  albeit  hot  and  sultry,  was  less  oppres 
sive  than  within.  She  drew  great  breaths  of  relief  as  it 
reached  her.  The  icy  grip  at  her  heart  seemed  to  relax. 

Tudor  watched  her  narrowly.     "What  madness  brought 


The  Sword  Falls  385 

you  here?"  he  said  presently,  as  she  turned  at  last  and 
mustered  a  smile  of  thanks. 

She  countered  the  question.  "I  might  ask  you  the 
same,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  contracted  behind  the  shielding  glasses.  "So 
you  might, "  he  said  briefly.  "Well, — I  came  on  the  chance 
of  meeting  you." 

"Of  meeting  me ! "     She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

He  nodded.  "Just  so.  I  want  a  word  with  you;  but  it 
can't  be  said  here.  Give  me  an  opportunity  later  if  you 
can!" 

His  hand  fell  away  from  her  elbow,  he  drew  back.  The 
bridal  procession  was  coming  down  the  church. 

Ina  was  flushed  and  laughing.  Dick  Guyes  still  obviously 
nervous,  but,  also  obviously,  supremely  happy.  They 
went  by  Avery  into  a  perfect  storm  of  rose-leaves  that 
awaited  them  from  the  crowd  outside.  Yet  for  one  moment 
the  eyes  of  the  bride  rested  upon  Avery,  meeting  hers 
almost  as  if  they  would  ask  her  a  question.  And  behind 
her — immediately  behind  her — came  Piers. 

His  eyes  also  found  Avery,  and  in  an  instant  with  a 
haughty  disregard  of  Tudor,  he  had  swept  her  forward  with 
him,  his  arm  thrust  imperially  through  hers.  They  also 
weathered  the  storm  of  rose-leaves,  and  as  they  went  Avery 
heard  him  laugh, — the  laugh  of  the  man  who  fights  with  his 
back  to  the  wall. 

They  were  among  the  first  to  offer  congratulations  to  the 
bride  and  bridegroom,  and  again  Avery  was  aware  of  the 
girl's  eyes  searching  hers. 

'  "  I  haven't  forgotten  you, "  she  said,  as  they  shook  hands. 
"I  knew  you  would  be  Lady  Evesham  sooner  or  later  after 
that  day  when  you  kept  the  whole  Hunt  at  bay. " 

Avery  felt  herself  flush.  There  seemed  to  her  to  be  a 
covert  insinuation  in  the  remark.  "I  was  very  grateful  to 
you  for  taking  my  part, "  she  said. 


386  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"It  was  rather  generous  certainly,"  agreed  the  bride 
coolly.  "Dick,  do  get  off  my  train!  You're  horribly 
clumsy  to-day." 

The  bridegroom  hastened  to  remove  himself  to  a  respect 
ful  distance,  while  Ina  turned  her  pretty  cheek  to  Piers. 
"You  may  salute  the  bride,"  she  said  graciously.  "It's 
the  only  opportunity  you  will  ever  have. " 

Piers  kissed  the  cheek  as  airily  as  it  was  proffered,  his 
dark  eyes  openly  mocking.  "Good  luck  to  you,  Ina!" 
he  said  lightly.  "I  wish  you  the  first  and  best  of  all  that's 
most  worth  having." 

Her  red  lips  curled  in  answer.  "You  are  superlatively 
kind,"  she  said. 

Other  guests  came  crowding  round  with  congratulations, 
and  they  moved  on. 

Piers  knew  everyone  there,  and  presented  one  after 
another  to  his  wife  till  she  felt  absolutely  bewildered.  He 
did  not  present  the  best  man,  who  to  her  relief  seemed  dis 
posed  to  keep  out  of  their  way.  She  wondered  greatly  if 
anything  had  passed  between  him  and  Piers,  though  by  the 
latter  at  least  the  incident  seemed  to  be  wholly  forgotten. 
He  was  in  his  gayest,  most  sparkling  mood,  and  she  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  he  was  very  popular  whichever  way  he 
turned.  People  kept  claiming  his  attention,  and  though  he 
tried  to  remain  near  her  he  was  drawn  away  at  last  by  the 
bridegroom  himself. 

Avery  looked  round  her  then  for  a  quiet  corner  where 
Tudor  might  find  her  if  he  so  desired,  but.  while  she  was 
searching  she  came  upon  Tudor  himself. 

He  joined  her  immediately,  with  evident  relief.  "Fop 
Heaven's  sake,  let  us  get  away  from  this  gibbering  crowd ! " 
he  said.  "They  are  like  a  horde  of  painted  monkeys. 
Come  alone  to  the  library!  I  don't  think  there  are  many 
people  there. " 

Avery  accompanied  him,   equally  thankful  to  escape. 


The  Sword  Falls  387 

They  found  the  library  deserted,  and  Tudor  made  her 
sit  down  by  the  window  in  the  most  comfortable  chair  the 
room  contained. 

"You  look  about  as  fit  for  this  sort  of  show  as  Mrs. 
Lorimer,"  he  observed  drily.  "She  had  the  sense  to  stay 
away." 

"I  couldn't,"  Avery  said. 

"For  goodness'  sake,"  he  exclaimed  roughly,  "don't  let 
that  young  ruffian  tyrannize  over  you!  You  will  never 
know  any  peace  if  you  do." 

Avery  smiled  a  little  and  was  silent. 

"Why  are  you  so  painfully  thin  ? "  he  pursued  relentlessly. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you?  When  I  saw  you  in  church 
just  now  I  had  a  positive  shock." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him.  "I  am  quite  all  right,"  she 
assured  him,  still  faintly  smiling.  "I  should  have  sent  for 
you  if  I  hadn't  been. " 

"  It's  high  time  you  sent  for  me  now, "  said  Tudor. 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly  through  his  glasses,  holding 
her  hand  firmly  clasped  in  his. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked  her  suddenly. 

She  started  at  the  question,  started  and  flushed.  "Why 
- — why  do  you  ask  me  that? "  she  said  in  confusion. 

"Because  you  don't  look  it,"  he  said  plainly.  "No, 
don't  be  vexed  with  me !  I  speak  as  a  friend — a  friend  who 
desires  your  happiness  more  than  anything  else  on  earth. 
And  do  you  know,  I  think  I  should  see  a  doctor  pretty  soon 
if  I  were  you.  If  you  don't,  you  will  probably  regret  it. 
Get  Piers  to  take  you  up  to  town !  Maxwell  Wyndham  is 
about  the  best  man  I  know.  Go  to  him!" 

"Thank  you,"  Avery  said.     "Perhaps  I  will." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  a  sudden  uproarious  laugh 
sounded  from  below  the  window  near  which  they  sat. 
Avery  looked  round  startled,  and  Tudor  frowned. 

"It's  that  little  brute  of  a  best  man — drunk  as  a  lord. 


The  Bars  of  Iron 

He's  some  sort  of  cousin  of  Guyes',  just  home  from  Austra 
lia;  and  the  sooner  he  goes  back  the  better  for  the  com 
munity  at  large,  I  should  say. " 

"Piers  knows  him!"  broke  almost  involuntarily  from 
Avery. 

And  with  that  swiftly  she  turned  her  head  to  listen,  for 
the  man  outside  had  evidently  gathered  to  himself  an 
audience  at  the  entrance  of  a  tent  that  had  been  erected 
for  refreshments,  and  was  declaiming  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

"Eric  Denys  was  the  name  of  the  man.  He  was  a  chum 
of  mine.  Samson  we  used  to  call  him.  This  Evesham 
fellow  killed  him  in  the  first  round.  I've  never  forgotten  it. 
I  recognized  him  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  him,  though  it's 
years  ago  now.  And  he  recognized  me !  I  wish  you'd  seen 
his  face!"  Again  came  the  uncontrolled,  ribald  laughter. 
"A  bully  sort  of  squire,  eh?  I  suppose  he's  a  justice  of  the 
peace  now,  a  law-giver,  eh?  Damn'  funny,  I  call  it!" 

Tudor  was  on  his  feet.  He  looked  at  Avery,  but  she  sat 
like  a  statue,  making  no  sign. 

Another  man  was  speaking  in  a  lower  tone,  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  restrain  the  first;  but  his  efforts  were  plainly 
useless,  for  the  best  man  had  more  to  say. 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  a  Queensland  crowd  is  no  joke.  He'd 
have  been  manhandled  if  he  hadn't  bolted.  Mistaken? 
Not  I!  Could  anyone  mistake  a  face  like  that?  Go  and 
ask  the  man  himself,  if  you  don't  believe  me!  You'll  find 
he  won't  deny  it!" 

"Shall  we  go?"  suggested  Tudor  brusquely. 

Avery  made  a  slight  movement,  wholly  mechanical;  but 
she  did  not  turn  her  head.  Her  whole  attitude  was  one  of 
tense  listening. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  in  any  case, "  said  Tudor,  after  a  moment. 
"That  fellow  will  make  an  exhibition  of  himself  if  someone 
doesn't  interfere." 


The  Sword  Falls  389 

He  went  to  the  door,  but  before  he  reached  it  Avery 
turned  in  her  chair  and  spoke. 

' '  He  has  gone  inside  for  another  drink.  You  had  better 
let  him  have  it." 

There  was  that  in  her  voice  that  he  had  never  heard 
before.  He  stopped  short,  looking  back  at  her. 

"Let  him  have  it!"  she  reiterated.  "Let  him  soak  him 
self  with  it!  You  won't  quiet  him  any  other  way. " 

Even  as  she  spoke,  that  horrible,  half-intoxicated  laugh 
came  to  them,  insulting  the  beauty  of  the  summer  after 
noon.  Avery  shivered  from  head  to  foot. 

"Don't  go!"  she  said.     "Please!" 

She  rose  as  Tudor  came  back,  rose  and  faced  him,  her 
face  like  death. 

"I  think  I  must  go  home,"  she  said.  "Will  you  find 
the  car?  No,  I  am  not  ill.  I — "  She  paused,  seemed 
to  grope  for  words,  stopped,  and  suddenly  a  bewildered  look 
came  into  her  face.  Her  eyes  dilated.  She  gave  a  sharp 
gasp.  Tudor  caught  her  as  she  fell. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MASK 

THE  bride  and  bridegroom  departed  amid  a  storm  of 
rice  and  good  wishes,  Ina's  face  still  wearing  that 
slightly  contemptuous  smile  to  the  last.  Piers,  in  the  fore 
most  of  the  crowd,  threw  a  handful  straight  into  her  lap  as 
the  car  started,  but  only  he  and  Dick  Guyes  saw  her  gather 
it  up  with  sudden  energy  and  fling  it  back  in  his  face. 

Piers  dropped  off  the  step  laughing.  "Ye  gods!  What 
fun  for  Dick  Guyes!"  he  said. 

A  hand  grasped  his  shoulder,  and  he  turned  and  saw 
Lennox  Tudor. 

"Hullo!"  he  said,  sharply  freeing  himself. 

"  I  want  a  word  with  you, "  said  Tudor  briefly. 

A  wary  look  came  into  Piers'  face  on  the  instant.  He 
looked  at  Tudor  with  the  measuring  eye  of  a  fencer. 

"What  about?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  tell  you  here.  Will  you  walk  back  with  me? 
Lady  Evesham  has  already  gone  in  the  car." 

Piers'  black  brows  went  up,  "Why  was  that?  Wasn't 
she  well  ? 

"No,"  said  Tudor  curtly. 

"But  she  will  send  the  car  back,"  said  Piers,  stubbornly 
refusing  to  betray  himself. 

"No,  she  won't.     I  told  her  we  would  walk. " 

"The  devil  you  did!"  said  Piers. 

He  turned  his  back  on  Tudor,  and  went  into  the  house. 


The  Mask  391 

But  Tudor  was  undaunted.  In  a  battle  of  wills,  he  was 
fully  a  match  for  Piers.  He  kept  close  behind. 

Eventually,  Piers  turned  upon  him.  "Look  here!  I'll 
give  you  five  minutes  in  the  library.  I'm  not  going  to  walk 
three  miles  with  you  in  this  blazing  heat.  It  would  be 
damned  unhealthy  for  us  both.  Moreover,  I've  promised 
to  spend  the  evening  with  Colonel  Rose. " 

It  was  the  utmost  he  could  hope  for,  and  Tudor  had  the 
sense  to  accept  what  he  could  get.     He  followed  him  to  the 
library  in  silence. 
"They  found  it  empty,  and  Tudor  quietly  turned  the  key. 

"What's  that  for?"  demanded  Piers  sharply. 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed, "  returned  Tudor. 

He  moved  forward  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  faced 
Piers. 

"  I  have  an  unpleasant  piece  of  news  for  you, "  he  said,  in 
a  grim,  emotionless  voice.  "That  cousin  of  Guyes' — you 
have  met  him  before,  I  think?  He  claims  to  know  some 
thing  of  your  past,  and  he  has  been  talking — somewhat 
freely." 

"What  has  he  been  saying?"  said  Piers. 

He  stood  up  before  Tudor  with  the  arrogance  of  a  man 
who  mocks  defeat,  but  there  was  a  gleam  of  desperation  in 
his  eyes — something  of  the  cornered  animal  in  his  very 
nonchalance. 

A  queer  touch  of  pity  moved  Tudor  from  his  attitude  of 
cold  informer.  There  was  an  undercurrent  of  something 
that  was  almost  sympathy  in  his  voice  as  he  made  reply. 

"The  fellow  was  more  or  less  drunk,  but  I  am  afraid  he 
was  rather  circumstantial.  He  recognized  in  you  a  man 
who  had  killed  some  chum  of  his  years  ago,  in  Queensland. " 

"Well?  "said  Piers. 

Just  the  one  word,  uttered  like  a  command!  Tudor's 
softer  impulse  passed. 

"He  was  bawling  it  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice.     A  good 


392  The  Bars  of  Iron 

many  people  must  have  heard  him.  I  was  in  this  room 
with  Lady  Evesham.  We  heard  also. " 

"Well?"  Piers  said  again. 

He  spoke  without  stirring  an  eyelid,  and  again,  involun 
tarily,  Tudor  was  moved,  this  time  with  a  species  of  unwill 
ing  admiration.  The  fellow  was  no  coward  at  least. 

He  went  on  steadily.  "It  was  impossible  not  to  hear 
what  the  beast  said.  He  mentioned  names  also, — your 
name  and  the  name  of  the  man  whom  he  alleged  you  had 
killed.  Lady  Evesham  heard  it.  We  both  heard  it. " 

He  paused.  Piers  had  not  moved.  His  face  was  like  a 
mask  in  its  composure,  but  it  was  a  dreadful  mask.  Tudor 
had  a  feeling  that  it  hid  unutterable  things. 

"What  was  the  man's  name?"  Piers  asked,  after  a 
moment. 

"Denys — Eric  Denys. " 

Piers  nodded,  as  one  verifying  a  piece  of  informa 
tion.  His  next  question  came  with  hauteur  and  studied 
indifference. 

"Lady  Evesham  heard,  you  say?  Did  she  pay  any 
attention  to  these  maudlin  revelations?" 

"She  fainted,"  said  Tudor  shortly. 

"Oh?     And  what  happened  then ?" 

It  was  maddeningly  cold-blooded;  but  it  was  the  mask 
that  spoke.  Tudor  recognized  that. 

"I  brought  her  round,"  he  made  answer.  "No  one  else 
was  present.  She  begged  me  to  let  her  go  home  alone.  I 
did  so." 

"She  also  asked  you  to  make  full  explanation  to  me?" 
came  in  measured  tones  from  Piers. 

"She  did. "  Tudor  paused  a  moment  as  though  he  found 
some  difficulty  in  forming  his  next  words.  But  he  went  on 
almost  at  once  with  resolution.  "She  said  to  me  at  part 
ing:  'I  must  be  alone.  I  must  think.  Beg  Piers  to  under 
stand  !  Beg  him  not  to  see  me  again  to-day !  I  will  talk  to 


The  Mask  393 

him  in  the  morning!'  I  promised  to  deliver  the  message 
exactly  as  she  gave  it. " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Piers.  He  turned  with  the  words, 
moved  away  to  the  window,  and  looked  forth  at  the  now 
deserted  marquee. 

Tudor  stood  mutely  waiting;  he  felt  as  if  it  had  been  laid 
upon  him  to  wait. 

Suddenly  Piers  jerked  his  head  round  and  glanced  at  the 
chair  in  which  Avery  had  been  sitting,  then  abruptly  turned 
himself  and  looked  at  Tudor. 

"What  were  you — and  my  wife — doing  in  here?"  he  said. 

Tudor  frowned  impatiently  at  the  question.  "Oh,  don't 
be  a  fool,  Evesham!"  he  said  with  vehemence. 

"  T''m  not  a  fool. "  Piers  left  the  window  with  the  gait  of 
a  prowling  animal ;  he  stood  again  face  to  face  with  the  other 
man.  But  though  his  features  were  still  mask-like,  his  eyes 
shone  through  the  mask;  and  they  were  eyes  of  leaping 
flame.  "Oh,  I  am  no  fool,  I  assure  you,  "  he  said,  and  in  his 
voice  there  sounded  a  deep  vibration  that  was  almost  like  a 
snarl.  "I  know  you  too  well  by  this  time  to  be  hood 
winked.  You  would  come  between  us  if  you  could." 

"You  lie!"  said  Tudor. 

He  did  not  raise  his  voice  or  speak  in  haste.  His  vehe 
mence  had  departed.  He  simply  made  the  statement  as  if 
it  had  been  a  wholly  impersonal  one. 

Piers'  hands  clenched,  but  they  remained  at  his  sides. 
He  looked  at  Tudor  hard,  as  if  he  did  not  understand  him. 

After  a  moment  Tudor  spoke  again.  "I  am  no  friend 
of  yours,  and  I  never  shall  be.  But  I  am  the  friend  of  your 
wife,  and — whether  you  like  it  or  not — I  shall  remain  so. 
For  that  reason,  whatever  I  do  will  be  in  your  interests  as 
well  as  hers.  I  have  not  the  smallest  intention  or  desire 
to  come  between  you.  And  if  you  use  your  wits  you  will  see 
that  I  couldn't  if  I  tried.  Your  marriage  with  her  tied 
my  hands." 


394  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"What  proof  have  I  of  that?"  said  Piers,  his  voice  low 
and  fierce. 

Tudor  made  a  slight  gesture  of  disgust.  "I  am  dealing 
with  facts,  not  proofs, "  he  said.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  though  you  obtained  her  love  on  false  pretences,  still 
you  obtained  it.  Whether  you  will  keep  it  or  not  remains 
to  be  seen,  but  she  is  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  solace  her 
self  with  anyone  else.  If  you  lose  it,  it  will  be  because 
you  failed  to  guard  your  own  property — not  because 
anyone  deprived  you  of  it." 

"Damnation!"  exclaimed  Piers  furiously,  and  with  the 
word  the  storm  of  his  anger  broke  like  a  fiery  torrent, 
sweeping  all  before  it,  "are  you  taking  me  to  task,  you — 
you — for  this  accursed  trick  of  Fate?  How  was  I  to  know 
that  this  infernal  little  sot  would  turn  up  here?  Why,  I 
don't  so  much  as  know  the  fellow's  name!  I  had  forgotten 
his  very  existence!  Where  the  devil  is  he?  Let  me  find 
him,  and  break  every  bone  in  his  body!"  He  whirled 
round  to  the  door,  but  in  a  moment  was  back  again. 
"Tudor!  Damn  you!  Where's  the  key?" 

"In  my  pocket,"  said  Tudor  quietly.  "And,  Piers, 
before  you  go — since  I  am  your  ally  in  spite  of  myself — let 
me  warn  you  to  keep  your  head!  There's  no  sense  in 
murdering  another  man.  It  won't  improve  your  case. 
There's  no  sense  in  running  amok.  Sit  down  for  Heaven's 
sake,  and  review  the  situation  quietly!" 

The  calm  wards  took  effect.  Piers  stopped,  arrested  in 
spite  of  himself  by  the  other's  steady  insistence.  He  looked 
at  Tudor  with  half-sullen  respect  dawning  behind  his 
ungoverned  fury. 

"Listen ! "  Tudor  said.  "The  fellow  has  gone.  I  packed 
him  off  myself.  It  was  a  piece  of  sheer  ill-luck  that  brought 
him  home  in  time  for  this  show.  He  starts  for  America 
en  route  for  Australia  in  less  than  a  week,  and  it  is  utterly 
unlikely  that  either  you  or  any  of  your  friends  will  see  or 


The  Mask  395 

hear  anything  more  of  him.  Guyes  himself  is  by  no  means 
keen  on  him  and  only  had  him  as  best  man  because  a  friend 
failed  him  at  the  last  minute.  If  you  behave  rationally  the 
whole  affair  will  probably  pass  off  of  itself.  Everyone 
knows  the  fellow  was  intoxicated,  and  no  one  is  likely  to  pay 
any  lasting  attention  to  what  he  said.  Treat  the  matter 
as  unworthy  of  notice,  and  you  will  very  possibly  hear 
no  more  of  it !  But  if  you  kick  up  a  row,  you  will  simply 
court  disaster.  I  am  an  older  man  than  you  are.  Take  my 
word  for  it, — I  know  what  I  am  talking  about. " 

Piers  listened  in  silence.  The  heat  had  gone  from  his 
face,  but  his  eyes  still  gleamed  with  a  restless  fire. 

Tudor  watched  him  keenly.  Not  by  his  own  choice 
would  he  have  ranged  himself  on  Piers'  side,  but  circum 
stances  having  placed  him  there  he  was  oddly  anxious  to 
effect  his  deliverance.  He  was  fighting  heavy  odds,  and  he 
knew  it,  but  there  was  a  fighting  strain  in  his  nature  also, 
He  relished  the  odds. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  a  fool  and  give  the  whole 
show  away!"  he  urged.  "You  have  no  enemies.  No  one 
will  want  to  take  the  matter  up  if  you  will  only  let  it  lie. 
No  one  wants  to  believe  evil  of  you.  Possibly  no  one  will. " 

"Except  yourself!"  said  Piers,  with  a  smile  that  showed 
his  set  teeth. 

"Quite  so."  Tudor  also  smiled,  a  grim  brief  smile. 
"But  then  I  happen  to  know  you  better  than  most.  You 
gave  yourself  away  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  that  night  in 
the  winter.  I  knew  then  that  once  upon  a  time  in  your 
career — you  had — killed  a  man." 

"And  you  didn't  tell  Avery!"  The  words  shot  out 
unexpectedly.  Piers  was  plainly  astonished. 

"I'm  not  a  woman!"  said  Tudor  contemptuously. 
"That  affair  was  between  us  two." 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Piers. 

"At  the  same  time,"  Tudor  continued  sternly,  "if  I  had 


396  The  Bars  of  Iron 

known  what  I  know  now,  I  would  have  told  her  everything 
sooner  than  let  her  ruin  her  happiness  by  marrying  you. " 

Piers  made  a  sharp  gesture  that  passed  unexplained. 
He  had  made  no  attempt  at  self-defence;  he  made  none 
then.  Perhaps  his  pride  kicked  at  the  idea;  perhaps  in  the 
face  of  Tudor's  shrewd  grip  of  the  situation  it  did  not  seem 
worth  while. 

He  held  out  his  hand.     "  May  I  have  that  key  ? " 

Tudor  gave  it  to  him.  He  was  still  watching  narrowly, 
but  Piers'  face  told  him  nothing.  The  mask  had  been 
replaced,  and  the  man  behind  it  was  securely  hidden  from 
scrutiny.  Tudor  would  have  given  much  to  have  rent  it 
aside,  and  have  read  the  thoughts  and  intentions  it  covered. 
But  he  knew  that  he  was  powerless.  He  knew  that  he  was 
deliberately  barred  out. 

Piers  went  to  the  door  and  fitted  the  key  into  the  lock. 
His  actions  were  all  grimly  deliberate.  The  volcanic 
fires  which  Tudor  had  seen  raging  but  a  few  seconds  before 
had  sunk  very  far  below  the  surface.  Whatever  was 
happening  in  the  torture-chamber  where  his  soul  agonized, 
it  was  certain  that  no  human  being — save  possibly  one — 
would  ever  witness  it.  What  he  suffered  he  would  suffer 
in  proud  aloofness  and  silence.  It  was  only  the  effect  of 
that  suffering  that  could  ever  be  made  apparent,  when  the 
soul  came  forth  again,  blackened  and  shrivelled  from  the 
furnace. 

Yet  ere  he  left  Tudor,  some  impulse  moved  him  to  look 
back. 

He  met  Tudor's  gaze  with  brooding  eyes  which  neverthe 
less  held  a  faint  warmth  like  the  dim  reflection  of  a  light 
below  the  horizon. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,"  he  said,  and  was  gone  before 
Tudor  could  speak  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    GATES   OF  HELL 

UP  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  a  fever  of  restlessness, 
Avery  walked.  She  felt  trapped.  The  gloomy, 
tapestried  room  seemed  to  close  her  in  like  a  prison.  The 
whole  world  seemed  to  have  turned  into  a  monstrous  place 
of  punishment.  One  thing  only  was  needed  to  complete 
the  anguish  of  her  spirit,  and  that  was  the  presence  of  her 
husband. 

She  could  not  picture  the  meeting  with  him.  Body  and 
soul  recoiled  from  the  thought.  It  would  not  be  till  the 
morning;  that  was  her  sole  comfort.  By  the  morning  this 
fiery  suffering  would  have  somewhat  abated.  She  would 
be  calmer,  more  able  to  face  him  and  hear  his  defence — if 
defence  there  could  be.  Somehow  she  never  questioned  the 
truth  of  the  story.  She  knew  that  Tudor  had  not  Ques 
tioned  it  either.  She  knew  moreover  that  had  it  been 
untrue,  Piers  would  have  been  with  her  long  ago  in  vehe 
ment  indignation  and  wrath. 

No,  the  thing  was  true.  He  was  the  man  who  had 
wrecked  her  life  at  its  beginning,  and  now — now  he  had 
wrecked  it  again.  He  was  the  man  whose  hands  were 
stained  with  her  husband's  blood.  He  had  done  the  deed 
in  one  of  those  wild  tempests  of  anger  with  which  she  was  so 
familiar.  He  had  done  the  deed,  possibly  unintentionally, 
b%tt  certainly  with  murderous  impulse ;  and  then  deliberately 
cynically,  he  had  covered  it  up,  and  gone  his  arrogant  way. 

3Q7 


398  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  had  met  her,  he  had  desired  her;  with  a  few,  quickly- 
stifled  qualms  he  had  won  her,  trusting  to  luck  that  his  sin 
would  never  find  him  out.  And  so  he  had  made  her  his  own, 
his  property,  his  prisoner,  the  slave  of  his  pleasure.  She 
was  bound  for  ever  to  her  husband's  murderer. 

Again  body  and  soul  shrank  in  quivering  horror  from  the 
thought,  and  a  wild  revolt  awoke  within  her.  She  could 
not  bear  it.  She  must  break  free.  The  bare  memory  of  his 
passion  sickened  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  hatred, 
fiery,  intense,  kindled  within  her.  The  thought  of  his  touch 
nlled  her  with  a  loathing  unutterable.  He  had  become 
horrible  to  her,  a  thing  unclean,  abominable,  whose  very 
proximity  was  pollution.  She  felt  as  if  the  blood  on  his 
hands  had  stained  her  also — the  blood  of  the  man  she 
had  once  loved.  For  a  space  she  became  like  a  woman 
demented.  The  thing  was  too  abhorrent  to  be  endured. 

And  then  by  slow  degrees  her  brain  began  to  clear  again. 
She  grew  a  little  calmer.  Monstrous  though  he  was,  he  was 
still  human.  He  was,  in  a  fashion,  at  her  mercy.  He  had 
sinned,  but  it  was  in  her  hands  that  his  punishment  lay. 

She  was  stronger  than  he.  She  had  always  known  it. 
But  she  must  keep  her  strength.  She  must  not  waste  it  in 
futile  resentment.  She  would  need  it  all.  He  had  entered 
her  kingdom  by  subtlety;  but  she  would  drive  him  forth  in 
the  strength  of  a  righteous  indignation.  To  suffer  him  to 
remain  was  unthinkable.  It  would  be  to  share  his  guilt. 

Her  thoughts  tried  to  wander  into  the  future,  but  she 
called  them  resolutely  back.  The  future  would  provide 
for  itself.  Her  immediate  duty  was  all  she  now  needed  to 
face.  When  that  dreaded  interview  was  over,  when  she  had 
shut  him  out  finally  and  completely  then  it  would  be  time 
enough  to  consider  that.  Probably  some  arrangement 
would  have  to  be  made  by  which  they  would  meet  occa 
sionally,  but  as  husband  and  wife — never,  never  more. 

It  was  growing  late.     The  dinner-gong  had  sounded,  but 


The  Gates  of  Hell  399 

she  would  not  go  down.  She  rang  for  Victor,  and  told  him 
to  bring  her  something  on  a  tray.  It  did  not  matter  what. 

He  looked  at  her  with  keen  little  eyes  of  solicitude,  and 
swiftly  obeyed  her  desire.  He  then  asked  her  if  the  dinner 
were  to  be  kept  for  Monsieur  Pierre,  who  had  not  yet 
returned.  She  did  not  know  what  to  say,  but  lest  he  should 
wonder  at  her  ignorance  of  Piers'  doings,  she  answered  in 
the  negative,  and  Victor  withdrew. 

Then,  again  lest  comment  should  be  made,  she  forced  her 
self  to  eat  and  drink,  though  the  food  nauseated  her.  A 
feeling  of  sick  suspense  was  growing  upon  her,  a  strange, 
foreboding  fear  that  hung  leaden  about  her  heart.  What 
was  Piers  doing  all  this  time?  What  effect  had  that  message, 
delivered  by  Tudor,  had  upon  him?  Why  had  he  not 
returned? 

Time  passed.  The  evening  waned  and  became  night.  A 
full  moon  rose  red  and  wonderful  out  of  a  bank  of  inky 
cloud,  lighting  the  darkness  with  an  oddly  tropical  effect. 
The  night  was  tropical,  breathless,  terribly  still.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  storm  must  be  upon  its  way. 

She  began  to  undress  at  last  there  in  the  moonlight. 
The  heat  was  too  intense  to  veil  the  windows,  and  she  would 
not  light  the  candles  lest  bats  or  moths  should  be  attracted. 
At  another  time  the  eeriness  of  the  shadowy  room  would 
have  played  upon  her  nerves,  but  to-night  she  was  not 
even  aware  of  it.  The  shadows  within  were  too  dark, 
too  sinister. 

A  great  weariness  had  come  upon  her.  She  ached  for 
rest.  Her  body  felt  leaden,  and  her  brain  like  a  burnt-out 
furnace.  The  very  capacity  for  thought  seemed  to  have 
left  her.  Only  the  horror  of  the  day  loomed  gigantic 
whichever  way  she  turned,  blotting  out  all  beside.  Prayer 
was  an  impossibility  to  her.  She  felt  lost  in  a  wilderness  of 
doubt,  forsaken  and  wandering,  and  terribly  alone. 

If   she  could  rest,  if  she  could  sleep,  she  thought  that 


400  The  Bars  of  Iron 

strength  might  return  to  her — the  strength  to  grapple  with 
and  overthrow  the  evil  that  had  entered  into  and  tainted 
her  whole  life.  But  till  sleep  should  come  to  her,  she  was 
impotent.  She  was  heavy  and  numb  with  fatigue. 

She  lay  down  at  length  with  a  vague  sense  of  physical 
relief  beneath  her  crushing  weight  of  trouble.  How 
unutterably  weary  she  was!  How  tired — how  tired  of  life! 

Time  passed.  The  moon  rose  higher,  filling  the  room 
with  its  weird  cold  light.  Avery  lay  asleep. 

Exhaustion  had  done  for  her  what  no  effort  of  will  could 
have  accomplished,  closing  her  eyes,  drawing  a  soft  veil  of 
oblivion  across  her  misery. 

But  it  was  only  a  temporary  lull.  The  senses  were  too 
alert,  too  fevered,  for  true  repose.  That  blessed  interval 
of  unconsciousness  was  all  too  short.  After  a  brief,  brief 
respite  she  began  to  dream. 

And  in  her  dream  she  saw  a  man  being  tortured  in  a 
burning,  fiery  furnace,  imprisoned  behind  bars  of  iron, 
writhing,  wrestling,  agonizing,  to  be  free.  She  saw  the 
flames  leaping  all  around  him,  and  in  the  flames  were 
demon-faces  that  laughed  and  gibed  and  jested.  She  saw 
his  hands  all  blistered  in  the  heat,  reaching  out  to  her, 
straining  through  those  cruel  bars,  beseeching  her  vainly 
for  deliverance.  And  presently,  gazing  with  a  sick  horror 
that  compelled,  she  saw  his  face.  .  .  . 

With  a  gasping  cry  she  awoke,  started  up  with  every 
nerve  stretched  and  quivering,  her  heart  pounding  as  if  it 
would  choke  her.  It  was  a  dream — it  was  a  dream!  She 
whispered  it  to  herself  over  and  over  again,  striving  to 
control  those  awful  palpitations.  Surely  it  was  all  a 
dream! 

Stay !  What  was  that  ?  A  sound  in  the  room  beyond — a 
movement — a  step!  She  sprang  up,  obeying  blind  impulse, 
sped  softly  to  the  intervening  door,  with  hands  that  trembled 
shot  the  bolt.  Then,  like  a  hunted  creature,  almost  dis- 


The  Gates  of  Hell  401 

i 

traded  by  the  panic  of  her  dream,  she  slipped  back  to  the 
gloomy  four-poster,  and  cowered  down  again. 

Lying  there,  crouched  and  quivering,  she  began  to  count 
those  hammering  heart-beats,  and  wondered  wildly  if  the 
man  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  could  hear  them  also.  She 
was  sure  that  he  had  been  there,  sure  that  he  had  been 
on  the  point  of  entering  when  she  had  shot  the  bolt. 

He  would  not  enter  now,  she  whispered  to  her  quaking 
heart.  She  would  not  have  to  meet  him  before  the  morning. 
And  by  then  she  would  be  strong.  It  was  only  her  weari 
ness  that  made  her  so  weak  to-night ! 

She  grew  calmer.  She  began  to  chide  herself  for  her 
senseless  panic — she  the  bearer  of  other  people's  burdens, 
who  prided  herself  upon  her  steady  nerve  and  calmness  of 
purpose.  She  had  never  been  hysterical  in  her  life  before. 
Surely  she  could  muster  self-control  now,  when  her  need  of  it 
was  so  urgent,  so  imperative. 

And  then,  just  as  a  certain  measure  of  composure  had 
returned  to  her,  something  happened.  Someone  passed 
down  the  passage  outside  her  room  and  paused  at  the  outer 
door.  Her  heart  stood  still,  but  again  desperately  she 
steadied  herself.  That  door  was  bolted  also. 

Yes,  it  was  bolted,  but  there  was  a  hand  upon  it, — a  hand 
that  felt  softly  for  the  lock,  found  the  key  outside,  softly 
turned  it. 

Then  indeed  panic  came  upon  Avery.  Lying  there, 
tense  and  listening,  she  heard  the  quiet  step  return  along 
the  passage  and  enter  her  husband's  room,  heard  that  door 
also  close  and  lock,  and  knew  herself  a  prisoner. 

"Avery!" 

Every  pulse  leapt,  every  nerve  shrank.  She  started  up, 
wide-eyed,  desperate. 

"I  will  talk  to  you  in  the  morning,  Piers,"  she  said, 
steadying  her  voice  with  difficulty.  "Not  now!  Not  now!" 

"Open  this  door!"  he  said. 
26 


402  The  Bars  of  Iron 

There  was  clear  command  in  his  voice,  and  with  it  the  old 
magnetic  force  reached  her,  quick,  insistent,  vital.  She 
threw  a  wild  look  round,  but  only  the  dazzling  moonlight 
met  her  eyes.  There  was  no  escape  for  her — no  escape. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  door  behind  which  he  stood. 
"Piers,  please,  not  to-night!"  she  said  beseechingly. 

"Open  the  door!"  he  repeated  inexorably. 

Again  that  force  reached  her.  It  was  like  an  electric  cur 
rent  suddenly  injected  into  her  veins.  Her  whole  body 
quivered  in  response.  Almost  before  she  knew  it,  she  had 
started  to  obey. 

And  then  horror  seized  her — a  dread  unutterable.  She 
stopped. 

"Piers,  will  you  promise " 

"  I  promise  nothing, "  he  said,  in  the  same  clear,  imperious 
voice,  "except  to  force  this  door  unless  you  open  it  within 
five  seconds." 

She  stood  in  the  moonlight,  trembling,  unnerved.  He 
did  not  sound  like  a  man  bereft  of  reason.  And  yet — and 
yet — something  in  his  voice  appalled  her.  Her  strength 
was  utterly  gone.  She  was  just  a  weak,  terrified  woman. 

"A very, "  his  voice  came  to  her  again,  short  and  stern, 
"I  don't  wish  to  threaten  you;  but  it  will  be  better  for  us 
both  if  I  don't  have  to  force  the  door. " 

She  forced  herself  to  speak  though  her  tongue  felt  stiff 
and  dry.  "  I  can't  let  you  in  now, "  she  said.  "  I  will  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  in  the  morning. " 

He  made  no  reply.  There  was  an  instant  of  dead  silence. 
Then  there  came  a  sudden,  hideous  shock  against  the  panel 
of  the  door.  The  socket  of  the  bolt  gave  with  the  strain, 
but  did  not  wholly  yield.  Avery  shrank  back  trembling 
against  the  shadowy  four-poster.  She  felt  as  if  a  raging 
animal  were  trying  to  force  an  entrance. 

Again  came  that  awful  shock.  The  wood  splintered  and 
rent,  socket  and  bolt  were  torn  free;  the  door  burst  inwards. 


The  Gates  of  Hell  403 

There  came  a  brief,  fiendish  laugh,  and  Piers  broke  in 
upon  her. 

He  recovered  himself  with  a  sharp  effort,  and  stood 
breathing  heavily,  looking  at  her.  The  moonlight  was  full 
upon  him,  showing  him  deadly  pale,  and  in  his  eyes  there 
shone  the  red  glare  of  hell. 

"Did  you  really  think — a  locked  door — would  keep  me 
out?"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  odd  jerkiness,  with  lips 
that  twitched. 

She  drew  herself  together  with  an  instinctive  effort  at 
self-control.  "  I  thought  you  would  respect  my  wish, "  she 
said,  her  voice  very  low. 

"Did  you?"  said  Piers.  "Then  why  did  you  lock  the 
door?" 

He  swung  it  closed  behind  him  and  came  to  her. 

"  Listen  to  me,  A  very ! "  he  said.  "You  are  not  your  own 
any  longer — to  give  or  to  take  away.  You  are  mine." 

She  faced  him  with  all  the  strength  she  could  muster,  but 
she  could  not  meet  those  awful  eyes  that  mocked  her,  that 
devoured  her. 

"  Piers, "  she  said,  almost  under  her  breath,  "remember, — 
what  happens  to-night  we  shall  neither  of  us  ever  forget. 
Don't  make  me  hate  you!" 

"Haven't  you  begun  to  hate  me  then?"  he  demanded. 
"Would  you  have  locked  that  door  against  me  if  you 
hadn't?" 

She  heard  the  rising  passion  in  his  voice,  and  her  heart 
fainted  within  her.  Yet  still  desperately  she  strove  for 
strength. 

"I  don't  want  to  do  anything  violent  or  unconsidered. 
I  must  have  time  to  think.  Piers,  you  have  me  at  your 
mercy.  Be  merciful ! ' ' 

He  made  a  sharp  movement.  "Are  you  going  to  be 
merciful  to  me?"  he  said. 

She  hesitated.     There  was  something  brutal  in  the  ques- 


404  The  Bars  of  Iron 

tion,  yet  it  pierced  her.  She  knew  that  he  had  divined  all 
that  had  been  passing  within  her  during  that  evening  of 
misery.  She  did  not  answer  him,  for  she  could  not. 

"Listen!"  he  said  again.  "What  has  happened  has 
happened  by  sheer  ill-luck.  The  past  is  nothing  to  you. 
You  have  said  so  yourself.  The  future  shall  not  be  sacri 
ficed  to  it.  If  you  will  give  me  your  solemn  promise  to  put 
this  thing  behind  you,  to  behave  as  if  it  had  never  been,  I 
will  respect  your  wishes,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  help  you  to 
forget.  But  if  you  refuse — "  He  stopped. 

"If  I  refuse — "  she  repeated  faintly. 

He  made  again  that  curious  gesture  that  was  almost  one 
of  helplessness.  "Don't  ask  for  mercy!"  he  said. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  there  came  to  her  the  certain 
knowledge  that  he  was  suffering,  that  he  was  in  an  inferno  of 
torment  that  goaded  him  into  fierce  savagery  against  her, 
like  a  mad  animal  that  will  wreak  its  madness  first  upon  the 
being  most  beloved.  It  was  out  of  his  torment  that  he  did 
this  thing.  She  saw  him  again  agonizing  in  the  flames. 

If  he  had  had  patience  then,  that  divine  pity  of  hers 
might  have  come  to  help  them  both;  but  he  read  into  her 
silence  the  abhorrence  which  a  little  earlier  had  possessed 
her  soul;  and  the  maddening  pain  of  it  drove  him  beyond 
all  bounds. 

He  seized  her  suddenly  and  savagely  between  his  hands. 
"Are  you  any  the  less  my  wife,  "  he  said,  speaking  between 
his  teeth,  "because  you  have  found  out  what  manner  of  man 
lam?" 

She  resisted  him,  swiftly,  instinctively,  her  hands  against 
his  breast,  pressing  him  back.  "I  may  be  your  wife,"  she 
said  gaspingly.  "I  am  not — your  slave." 

He  laughed  a  fiendish  laugh.  Her  resistance  fired  him. 
He  caught  her  fiercely  to  him.  He  covered  her  face,  her 
throat,  her  arms,  her  hands,  with  kisses  that  burned  her 
through  and  through,  seeming  to  sear  her  very  soul. 


The  Gates  of  Hell  405 

He  crushed  her  in  a  grip  that  bruised  her,  that  suffocated 
her.  He  pressed  his  lips,  hot  with  passion,  to  hers. 

"And  now!"  he  said.     "And  now!" 

She  lay  in  his  arms  spent  and  quivering  and  helpless. 
The  cruel  triumph  of  his  voice  silenced  all  appeal. 

He  went  on  deeply,  speaking  with  his  lips  so  close  that  she 
felt  his  breath  scorch  through  her  like  the  breath  of  a  fiery 
furnace. 

"You  are  bound  to  me  for  better — for  worse,  and  nothing 
will  ever  set  you  free.  Do  you  understand?  If  you  will 
not  be  my  wife,  you  shall  be — my  slave. " 

Quiveringly,  through  lips  that  would  scarcely  move 
she  spoke  at  last.  "I  shall  never  forgive  you." 

"I  shall  never  ask  your  forgiveness,"  he  said. 

So  the  gates  of  hell  closed  upon  Avery  also.  She  went 
down  into  the  unknown  depths.  And  in  an  agony  of  shame 
she  learned  the  bitterest  lesson  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A      FRIEND      IN      NEED 

"\  X7HY,    Avery   dear,    is   it   you?     Come   in!"     Mrs. 

V  V  Lorimer  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  eager  welcome 
on  her  little  pinched  face  and  went  forward  almost  at  a  run 
to  greet  her. 

The  brown  holland  smock  upon  which  she  had  been  at 
work  fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  Avery  who,  after  a  close 
embrace,  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

"Who  is  this  for?  Baby  Phil?  You  must  let  me  lend  a 
hand, "  she  said. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  do  miss  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer  wist 
fully.  "The  village  girl  who  comes  in  to  help  is  no  good  at 
all  at  needlework,  and  you  know  how  busy  Nurse  always  is. 
Jeanie  does  her  best,  and  is  a  great  help  in  many  ways. 
But  she  is  but  a  child.  However,"  she  caught  herself  up, 
"I  mustn't  start  grumbling  the  moment  you  enter  the 
house.  Tell  me  about  yourself,  dear!  You  are  looking 
very  pale.  Does  the  heat  try  you? " 

"A  little,"  Avery  admitted. 

She  was  spreading  out  the  small  garment  on  her  knee, 
looking  at  it  critically,  with  eyes  downcast.  She  certainly 
was  pale  that  morning.  The  only  colour  in  her  face  seemed 
concentrated  in  her  lips. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  looked  at  her  uneasily.  There  was  some 
thing  not  quite  normal  about  her,  she  felt.  She  had  never 
seen  Avery  look  so  statuesque.  She  missed  the  quick 

406 


A  Friend  in  Need  407 

sweetness  of  her  smile,  the  brightness  and  animation  of  her 
glance. 

"It  is  very  dear  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,"  she  said 
gently,  after  a  moment.  "Did  you  walk  all  the  way?  I 
hope  it  hasn't  been  too  much  for  you." 

"  No, "  Avery  said.     "  It  did  me  good. " 

She  was  on  the  verge  of  saying  something  further,  but  the 
words  did  not  come. 

She  continued  to  smooth  out  the  little  smock  with  minute 
care,  while  Mrs.  Lorimer  watched  her  anxiously. 

"Is  all  well,  dear?"  she  ventured  at  last. 

Avery  raised  her  brows  slightly,  but  her  eyes  remained 
downcast.  "I  went  to  the  wedding  yesterday,"  she  said, 
after  a  momentary  pause. 

"Oh,  did  you,  dear?  Stephen  went,  but  I  stayed  at 
home.  Did  you  see  him?" 

"Only  from  a  distance,"  said  Avery. 

"It  was  a  very  magnificent  affair,  he  tells  me."  Mrs. 
Lorimer  was  becoming  a  little  nervous.  She  had  begun 
to  be  conscious  of  something  tragic  in  the  atmosphere. 
"And  did  you  enjoy  it,  dear?  Or  was  the  heat  too  great?" 

"It  was  hot, "  Avery  said. 

Again  she  seemed  to  be  about  to  say  something  more, 
and  again  she  failed  to  do  so.  Her  lips  closed. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  remained  silent  also  for  several  seconds. 
Then  softly  she  rose,  went  to  Avery,  put  her  arms  about  her. 

"My  darling!"  she  said  fondly. 

That  was  all.  No  further  questioning,  no  anxious 
probing,  simply  her  love  poured  out  in  fullest  measure  upon 
the  altar  of  friendship!  And  it  moved  Avery  instantly 
and  overwhelmingly,  shattering  her  reserve,  sweeping  away 
the  stony  ramparts  of  her  pride. 

She  turned  and  hid  her  face  upon  Mrs.  Lorimer's  breast 
in  an  anguish  of  tears. 

It  lasted  for  several  minutes,  that  paroxysm  of  weeping. 


408  The  Bars  of  Iron 

It  was  the  pent  misery  of  hours  finding  vent  at  last.  All 
she  had  suffered,  all  the  humiliation,  the  bitterness  of 
desecrated  love,  the  utter  despair  of  her  soul,  was  in  those 
tears.  They  shook  her  being  to  the  depths.  They  seemed 
to  tear  her  heart  asunder. 

At  last  in  broken  whispers  she  began  to  speak.  Still  with 
those  scalding  tears  falling  between  her  words,  she  imparted 
the  whole  miserable  story;  she  bared  her  fallen  pride. 
There  was  no  other  person  in  the  world  to  whom  she  could 
thus  have  revealed  that  inner  agony,  that  lacerating  shame. 
But  Mrs.  Lorimer,  the  despised,  the  downtrodden,  was  as 
an  angel  from  heaven  that  day.  A  new  strength  was  hers, 
born  of  her  friend's  utter  need.  She  held  her  up,  she  sus 
tained  her,  through  that  the  darkest  hour  of  her  life,  with  a 
courage  and  a  steadfastness  of  which  no  one  had  ever 
deemed  her  capable. 

When  Avery  whispered  at  length,  "  I  can  never,  never  go 
back  to  him!"  her  answer  was  prompt. 

"  My  dear,  you  must.  It  will  be  hard,  God  knows.  But 
He  will  give  you  strength.  Oh  Avery,  don't  act  for  yourself, 
dear!  Let  Him  show  the  way !" 

"If  He  will!"  sobbed  Avery,  with  her  burning  face 
hidden  against  her  friend's  heart. 

"He  will,  dearest,  He  will,"  Mrs.  Lorimer  asserted  with 
conviction.  "  He  is  much  nearer  to  us  in  trouble  than  most 
of  us  ever  realize.  Only  let  Him  take  the  helm;  He  will 
steer  you  through  the  storm." 

"  I  feel  too  wicked,"  whispered  Avery, "  too — overwhelmed 
with  evil. " 

"  My  dear,  feelings  are  nothing, "  said  the  Vicar's  wife, 
with  a  decision  that  would  have  shocked  the  Reverend 
Stephen  unspeakably.  "We  can't  help  our  feelings,  but  we 
can  put  ourselves  in  the  way  of  receiving  help.  Oh,  don't 
you  think  He  often  lets  us  miss  our  footing  just  because 
He  wants  us  to  lean  on  Him?" 


A  Friend  in  Need  409 

"I  don't  know,  "  Avery  said  hopelessly.  "But  I  think  it 
will  kill  me  to  go  back.  Even  if — if  I  pretended  to  forgive 
him — I  couldn't  possibly  endure  to — to  go  on  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Eric — my  first  husband — will  always 
stand  between  us  now. " 

"Dear,  are  you  sure  that  what  you  heard  was  not  an 
exaggeration?"  Mrs.  Lorimer  asked  gently. 

"Oh  yes,  I  am  sure."  There  was  utter  hopelessness 
in  Avery's  reply.  "I  have  always  known  that  there  was 
something  in  his  past,  some  cloud  of  which  he  would  never 
speak  openly.  But  I  never  dreamed — never  guessed — ' 
She  broke  off  with  a  sharp  shudder.  "Besides,  he  has 
offered  no  explanation,  no  excuse,  no  denial.  He  lets  me 
believe  the  worst,  and  he  doesn't  care.  He  is  utterly 
callous — utterly  brutal.  That  is  how  I  know  that  the 
worst  is  true."  She  rose  abruptly,  as  if  inaction  had 
become  torture  to  her.  "Oh,  I  must  leave  him!"  she  cried 
out  wildly.  "I  am  nothing  to  him.  My  feelings  are  less 
than  nothing.  He  doesn't  really  want  me.  Any  woman 
could  fill  my  place  with  him  equally  well!" 

"Hush!"  Mrs.  Lorimer  said.  She  went  to  Avery  and 
held  her  tightly,  as  if  she  would  herself  do  battle  with  the 
evil  within.  "  You  are  not  to  say  that,  Avery.  You  are  not 
to  think  it.  It  is  utterly  untrue.  Suffering  may  have 
goaded  him  into  brutality,  but  he  is  not  wicked  at  heart. 
And,  my  dear,  he  is  in  your  hands  now — to  make  or  to  mar. 
He  worships  you  blindly,  and  if  his  worship  has  become 
an  unholy  thing,  it  is  because  the  thought  of  losing  you  has 
driven  him  nearly  distracted.  You  can  win  it  back — if 
you  will." 

"I  don't  want  to  win  it  back!"  Avery  said.  She  suf 
fered  the  arms  about  her,  but  she  stood  rigid  in  their  em 
brace,  unyielding,  unresponding.  "His  love  is  horrible  to 
me'  I  abhor  it!" 

' '  Avery !    Your  husband ! ' ' 


410  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"He  is  a  murderer!"  Avery  cried  passionately.  "He 
would  murder  me  too  if — if  he  could  bring  himself  to  do 
without  me!  He  hates  me  in  his  soul. " 

"Avery,  hush!  You  are  distraught.  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying. "  Mrs.  Lorimer  drew  her  back  to  her 
chair  with  tender  insistence.  "Sit  down,  darling!  And 
try — do  try — to  be  quiet  for  a  little!  You  are  worn  out. 
I  don't  think  you  can  have  had  any  sleep. " 

"Sleep!"  Avery  almost  laughed,  and  then  again  those 
burning,  blinding  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  you  don't 
know  what  I've  been  through!"  she  sobbed.  "You  don't 
know!  You  don :t  know!" 

"God  knows,  darling,"  whispered  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

Minutes  later,  when  Avery  was  lying  back  exhausted,  no 
longer  sobbing,  only  dumbly  weeping,  there  came  a  gentle 
knock  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  went  to  it  quickly,  and  met  her  eldest 
daughter  upon  the  point  of  entering.  Jeanie  looked  up  at 
her  enquiringly. 

"Is  anyone  here?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Avery  is  here.  She  isn't  very  well  this 
morning.  Run  and  fetch  her  a  glass  of  milk!" 

Jeanie  hastened  away.  Mrs.  Lorimer  returned  to 
Avery. 

"My  darling, "  she  said,  "do  you  know  I  think  I  can  see  a 
way  to  help  you?" 

Avery 's  eyes  were  closed.  She  put  out  a  trembling 
hand.  "You  are  very  good  to  me." 

"I  wonder  how  often  I  have  had  reason  to  say  that  to 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer  softly.  "Listen,  darling!  You 
must  go  back.  Yes,  Avery,  you  must!  You  must!  But 
— you  shall  take  my  little  Jeanie  with  you." 

Avery's  eyes  opened.  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  looking  at  her 
with  tears  in  her  own. 

"I  know  I  may  trust  her  to  you,"  she  said.     "But  oh. 


A  Friend  in  Need  411 

you  vvill  take  care  of  her !  Remember  how  precious  she  is — 
and  how  fragile!" 

"But,  my  dear — you  couldn't  spare  her!"  Avery  said. 

"Yes,  I  can, — I  will!"  Mrs.  Lorimer  hastily  rubbed  her 
eyes  and  smiled — n,  resolute  smile.  "You  may  have  her, 
dear.  I  know  she  will  be  happy  with  you.  And  Piers  is  so 
fond  of  her  too.  She  will  be  a  comfort  to  you — to  you  both, 
please  God.  She  comforts  everyone — my  little  Jeanie.  It 
seems  to  be  her  role  in  life.  Ah,  here  she  comes !  You  shall 
tell  her,  dear.  It  will  come  better  from  you. " 

"May  I  come  in?"  said  Jeanie  at  the  door. 

Her  mother  went  to  admit  her.  Avery  sat  up,  and 
pushed  her  chair  back  against  the  window-curtain. 

Jennie  entered,  a  glass  of  milk  in  one  hand  and  a  plate  in 
the  other.  "Good  morning,  dear  Avery!"  she  said,  in  her 
gentle,  rather  tired  voice.  "I've  brought  you  a  hot  cake 
too — straight  out  of  the  oven.  It  smells  quite  good." 
She  came  to  Avery's  side,  and  stood  within  the  circle  of  her 
arm;  but  she  did  not  kiss  her  or  look  into  her  piteous,  tear- 
stained  face.  "I  hope  you  like  currants,  "  she  said.  " Baby 
Phil  calls  them  flies.  Have  you  seen  Baby  Phil  lately? 
He  has  just  cut  another  tooth.  He  likes  everybody  to  look 
at  it." 

"I  must  see  it  presently,"  Avery  said,  with  an  effort. 

She  drank  the  milk,  and  broke  the  cake,  still  holding 
Jeanie  pressed  to  her  side. 

Jeanie,  gravely  practical,  held  the  plate.  "I  saw  Piers 
ride  by  a  little  while  ago,"  she  remarked.  "He  was  on 
Pompey.  But  he  was  going  so  fast  he  didn't  see  me.  He 
always  rides  fast,  doesn't  he?  But  I  think  Pompey  likes 
it,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know."  There  was  an  odd  frozen  note  in 
Avery's  voice.  "He  has  to  go — whether  he  likes  it  or  not. " 

"But  he  is  very  fond  of  Piers, "  said  Jeanie.  "And  so  is 
Caesar. "  She  gave  a  little  sigh.  "Poor  Mikey !  Do  you 


The  Bars  of  Iron 

remember  how  angry  he  used  to  be  when  Caesar  ran 
by?" 

Avery  suppressed  a  shiver.  Vivid  as  a  picture  flung  on  a 
screen,  there  rose  in  her  brain  the  memory  of  that  winter 
evening  when  Piers  and  Mike  and  Caesar  had  all  striven 
together  for  the  mastery.  Again  she  seemed  to  hear  those 
savage,  pitiless  blows.  She  might  have  known!  She 
might  have  known! 

Sharply  she  wrenched  herself  back  to  the  present. 
"Jeanie  darling,"  she  said,  "your  mother  says  that  you 
may  come  and  stay  at  the  Abbey  for  a  little  while.  Do  you 
— would  you — like  to  come  ? ' ' 

Her  voice  was  unconsciously  wistful.  Jeanie  turned 
for  the  first  time  and  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,  Avery!"  she  said.     "Stay  with  you  and  Piers?" 

Her  eyes  were  shining.  She  slid  a  gentle  arm  round 
Avery's  neck. 

"You  would  like  to?"   Avery  asked,   faintly  smiling. 

"I  would  love  to,"  said  Jeanie  earnestly.  She  looked 
across  at  her  mother.  ' '  Shall  you  be  able  to  manage,  dear  ? " 
she  asked  in  her  grown-up  way. 

Mrs.  Lorimcr  stifled  a  sigh.  "Oh  yes,  Jeanie  dear.  I 
shall  do  all  right.  Gracie  will  help  with  the  little  ones,  you 
know." 

Jeanie  smiled  at  that.  "I  think  I  will  go  and  talk  to 
Gracie,  "  she  said,  quietly  releasing  herself  from  Avery's  arm. 

But  at  the  door  she  paused.  "I  hope  Father  won't 
mind,"  she  said.  "But  he  did  say  I  wasn't  to  have  any 
more  treats  till  my  Easter  holiday-task  was  finished." 

"I  will  make  that  all  right,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jeanie.  "Of  course  I  can  take  it 
with  me.  I  expect  I  shall  get  more  time  for  learning  it  at 
the  Abbey.  You  might  tell  him  that,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  will  tell  him,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

And  Jeanie  smiled  and  went  her  way. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  GREAT  GULF 

HULLO!"  said  Piers.     "Has  the  Queen  of  all  good 
fairies  come  to  call?" 

He  strode  across  the  garden  with  that  high,  arrogant 
air  of  his  as  of  one  who  challenges  the  world,  and  threw 
himself  into  the  vacant  chair  by  the  tea-table  at  which 
his  wife  sat. 

The  blaze  of  colour  that  overspread  her  pale  face  at  his 
coming  faded  as  rapidly  as  it  rose.  She  glanced  at  him 
momentarily,  under  fluttering  lids. 

"  Jeanie  has  come  to  stay, "  she  said,  her  voice  very  low. 

His  arm  was  already  round  Jeanie  who  had  risen  to  meet 
him.  He  pulled  her  down  upon  his  knee. 

' '  That  is  very  gracious  of  her, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Good  Heavens, 
child!  You  are  as  light  as  a  feather!  Why  don't  you  eat 
more?" 

"  I  am  never  hungry, "  explained  Jeanie.  She  kissed  him 
and  then  drew  herself  gently  from  him,  sitting  down  by  his 
side  with  innate  dignity.  "Have  you  been  riding  all  day ? " 
she  asked.  "  Isn't  Pompey  tired  ?" 

"Caesar  and  Pompey  are  both  dead  beat,"  said  Piers. 
"And  I — "  he  looked  deliberately  at  Avery,  " — am  as  fresh 
as  when  I  started. " 

Again,  as  it  were  in  response  to  that  look,  her  eyelids 
fluttered;  but  she  did  not  raise  them.  Again  the  colour 
started  and  died  in  her  cheeks. 

413 


4 14  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Have  you  had  anything  to  eat?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Piers. 

He  took  the  cup  she  offered  him,  and  drained  it.  There 
was  a  fitful  gleam  in  his  dark  eyes  as  of  a  red,  smouldering 
fire. 

But  Jeanie's  soft  voice  intervening  dispelled  it.  "How 
very  hungry  you  must  be!"  she  said  in  a  motherly 
tone.  "Will  bread  and  butter  and  cake  be  enough  for 
you?" 

"Quite  enough,"  said  Piers.  "Like  you,  Jeanie,  I  am 
not  hungry."  He  handed  back  his  cup  to  be  filled  again. 
"But  I  have  a  lively  thirst, "  he  said. 

"It  has  been  so  hot  to-day, "  observed  Avery. 

"It  is  never  too  hot  for  me,"  he  rejoined.  "Hullo! 
Who's  that?" 

He  was  staring  towards  the  house  under  frowning  brows. 
A  figure  had  just  emerged  upon  the  terrace. 

"Dr.  Tudor!"  said  Jeanie. 

Again  Piers'  eyes  turned  upon  his  wife.  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  sombre  scrutiny.  After  a  moment  she  lifted  her 
own  and  resolutely  returned  the  look. 

"Won't  you  go  and  meet  him?"  she  said. 

He  rose  abruptly,  and  strode  away. 

Avery's  eyes  followed  him,  watching  narrowly  as  the  two 
men  met.  Lennox  Tudor,  she  saw,  offered  his  hand,  and 
after  the  briefest  pause,  Piers  took  it.  They  came  back 
slowly  side  by  side. 

Again,  unobtrusively,  Jeanie  rose.  Tudor  caught  sight  of 
her  almost  before  he  saw  Avery. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.     "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

Jeanie  explained  with  her  customary  old-fashioned  air  of 
responsibility:  "I  have  come  to  take  care  of  Avery,  as  she 
isn't  very  well." 

Tudor 's  eyes  passed  instantly  and  very  swiftly  to  Avery's 
face.  He  bent  slightly  over  the  hand  she  gave  him. 


The  Great  Gulf  4*5 

"A  good  idea!"  he  said  brusquely.  "I  hope  you  will 
take  care  of  each  other.  " 

He  joined  them  at  the  tea-table,  and  talked  of  indifferent 
things.  Piers  talked  also  with  that  species  of  almost 
fierce  gaiety  with  which  A  very  had  become  so  well  acquainted 
of  late.  She  was  relieved  that  there  was  no  trace  of  hos 
tility  apparent  in  his  manner. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  fact,  she  received  a  shock  of 
surprise  when  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  got  up 
with  a  careless:  "Come  along,  my  queen!  We'll  see  if 
Pompey  has  got  the  supper  he  deserves. " 

Even  Tudor  looked  momentarily  astonished,  but  as  he 
watched  Piers  saunter  away  with  his  arm  round  Jeanie's 
thin  shoulders  his  expression  changed.  He  turned  to  her 
abruptly.  "How  are  you  feeling  to-day?"  he  enquired. 
' '  I  had  to  come  in  and  ask.  " 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you, "  she  answered. 

He  smiled  in  his  rather  grim  fashion.  "I  came  more  for 
my  own  satisfaction  than  for  yours,"  he  observed.  "You 
are  better,  are  you?" 

She  smiled  also.  "There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me, 
you  know. " 

He  gave  her  a  shrewd  look  through  his  glasses.  "No," 
he  said.  "I  know." 

He  said  no  more  at  all  about  her  health,  nor  did  he  touch 
upon  any  other  intimate  subject,  but  she  had  a  very  distinct 
impression  that  he  did  not  cease  to  observe  her  closely 
throughout  their  desultory  conversation.  She  even  tried 
to  divert  his  attention,  but  she  knew  she  did  not 
succeed. 

He  remained  with  her  until  they  saw  Piers  and  Jeanie 
returning,  and  then  somewhat  suddenly  he  took  his  leave. 
He  joined  the  two  on  the  lawn,  sent  Jeanie  back  to  her, 
and  walked  away  himself  with  his  host. 

What  passed  between  them  she  did  not  know  and  could 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


not  even  conjecture,  for  she  did  not  see  Piers  again  till  they 
met  in  the  hall  before  dinner.  Jeanie  was  with  her,  looking 
delicately  pretty  in  her  white  muslin  frock,  and  it  was  to  her 
that  Piers  addressed  himself. 

"Come  here,  my  queen!     I  want  to  look  at  you." 

She  went  to  him  readily  enough.  He  took  her  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Are  you  made  of  air,  I  wonder?  I  should  be  ashamed 
of  you,  Jeanie,  if  you  belonged  to  me.  " 

Jeanie  looked  up  into  the  handsome,  olive  face  with  eyes 
that  smiled  love  upon  him.  "I  expect  it's  partly  because 
you  are  so  big  and  strong,  "  she  said. 

"No,  it  isn't,  "  said  Piers.  "It's  because  you're  so  small 
and  weak.  Avery  will  have  to  take  you  away  to  the  sea 
again,  what?  You'd  like  that." 

"And  you  too!"  said  Jeanie. 

"I?  Oh  no,  you  wouldn't  want  me.  Would  you, 
Avery?" 

He  deliberately  addressed  her  for  the  first  time  that  day. 
Over  the  child's  head  his  eyes  flashed  their  mocking  message. 
She  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  her  across  the  face. 

"Would  you?"  he  repeated,   with  arrogant  insistence. 

She  tried  to  turn  the  question  aside.  "Well,  as  we  are 
not  going  -  " 

"  But  you  are  going,  "  he  said.  "You  and  Jeanie.  How 
soon  can  you  start?  To-morrow?" 

Avery  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "Are  you  in 
earnest?" 

"  Of  course  I'm  in  earnest,  "  he  said,  with  a  frown  that  was 
oddly  boyish.  "You  had  better  go  to  Stanbury  Cliffs. 
It  suited  you  all  right  in  the  spring.  Fix  it  up  with  Mrs. 
Lorimer  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  go  down  in  the 
afternoon!" 

He  spoke  impatiently.  Opposition  or  delay  always  set 
him  chafing. 


The  Great  Gulf  4*7 

Jeanie  looked  at  him  with  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "But 
you,  Piers!"  she  said.  "What  will  you  do?" 

"I?  Oh,  I  shall  be  busy,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  lot  on 
hand  just  now.  Besides, "  again  the  gibing  note  was  in  his 
voice,  "you'll  get  along  much  better  without  me.  Avery 
says  so." 

"She  didn't ! "  exclaimed  Jeanie,  with  a  sudden  rare  touch 
of  indignation. 

"All  right.  She  didn't,"  laughed  Piers.  " My  mistake!" 
He  flicked  the  child's  cheek  teasingly,  and  then  abruptly 
stooped  and  kissed  it.  "Don't  be  angry,  Queen  of  the 
fairies!  It  isn't  worth  it. " 

She  slipped  her  arm  round  his  neck  on  the  instant. 
"I'm  not,  dear  Piers.  I'm  not  angry.  But  we  shouldn't 
want  to  go  away  and  leave  you  alone.  We  shouldn't  really." 

He  laughed  again,  carelessly,  without  effort.  "No,  but 
you'd  get  on  all  right  without  me.  You  and  Avery  are 
such  pals.  What  do  you  say  to  it,  Avery?  Isn't  it  a  good 
idea?" 

"I  think  perhaps  it  is,"  she  said  slowly,  her  voice  very 
low. 

He  straightened  himself,  and  looked  at  her,  and  again  that 
vivid,  painful  blush  covered  her  face  and  neck  as  though  a 
flame  had  scorched  her.  She  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 

"Very  well  then.  It's  settled,  "  he  said  jauntily.  "  Now 
let's  go  and  have  some  dinner!" 

He  kept  up  his  light  attitude  throughout -the  meal,  save 
that  once  he  raised  his  wine-glass  mockingly  to  the  woman 
on  the  wall.  But  his  mood  was  elusive.  Avery  felt  it. 
It  was  as  if  he  played  a  juggling  game  on  the  edge  of  the  pit 
of  destruction,  and  she  watched  him  with  a  leaden  heart. 

She  rose  from  the  table  earlier  than  usual,  for  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  dining-room  oppressed  her  almost  unbearably. 
It  was  a  night  of  heavy  stillness. 

"You  ought  to  go  to  bed,  dear,"  she  said  to  Jeanie. 


4i 8  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Oh,  must  I?"  said  Jcanic  wistfully.  "I  never  sleep 
much  on  these  hot  nights.  One  can't  breath  so  well  lying 
down. " 

Avery  looked  at  her  with  quick  anxiety,  but  she  had 
turned  to  Piers  and  was  leaning  against  him  with  a  gentle 
coaxing  air. 

"Please,  dear  Piers,  would  it  tire  you  to  play  to  us?"  she 
begged. 

He  looked  down  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  would  refuse ; 
then  very  gently  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  head,  pressing  back 
the  heavy,  clustering  hair  from  her  forehead  to  look  into  her 
soft  eyes. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  play?  "  he  said. 

She  made  a  wide  gesture  of  the  hands  and  let  them  fall. 
"Something  big,"  she  said.  "Something  to  take  to  bed 
with  us  and  give  us  happy  dreams. " 

His  lips — those  mobile,  sensitive  lips — curved  in  a  smile 
that  made  Avery  avert  her  eyes  with  a  sudden  hot  pang. 
He  released  Jeanie,  and  turned  away  to  the  door. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  go 
into  the  garden — you  and  Avery.  " 

They  went,  though  Jeanie  looked  as  if  she  would  have 
preferred  to  accompany  him  to  the  music-room.  It  was 
little  cooler  on  the  terrace  than  in  the  house.  The  heat 
brooded  over  all,  dense,  black,  threatening. 

"I  hope  it  will  rain  soon,"  said  Jeanie,  drawing  her 
chair  close  to  Avery's. 

"There  will  be  a  storm  when  it  does, "  Avery  said. 

"I  like  storms,  don't  you?"  said  Jeanie. 

Avery  shook  her  head.     "No,  dear." 

She  was  listening  in  tense  expectancy,  waiting  with  a 
dread  that  was  almost  insupportable  for  the  music  that 
Piers  was  about  to  make.  They  were  close  to  the  open 
French  window  of  the  music-room,  but  there  was  no  light 
within.  Piers  was  evidently  sitting  there  silent  in  the  dark- 


The  Great  Gulf  419 

ness.  Her  pulses  were  beating  violently.  Why  did  he  sit 
so  still?  Why  was  there  no  sound? 

A  flash  of  lightning  quivered  above  the  tree-tops  and  was 
gone.  Jeanie  drew  in  her  breath,  saying  no  word.  A  very 
shrank  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  could  hear  her  heart 
beating  audibly,  like  the  throbbing  of  a  distant  drum.  The 
suspense  was  terrible. 

There  came  from  far  away  the  growl  and  mutter  of  the 
rising  storm.  The  leaves  of  the  garden  began  to  tremble. 
And  then,  ere  that  roll  of  distant  thunder  had  died  away, 
another  sound  came  through  the  darkness — a  sound  that  was 
almost  terrifying  in  its  suddenness,  and  the  grand  piano  be 
gan  to  speak. 

What  music  it  uttered,  Avery  knew  not.  It  was  such  as 
she  had  never  heard  before.  It  was  unearthly,  it  was 
devilish,  a  fiendish  chorus  that  was  like  the  laughter  of  a 
thousand  demons — a  pandemonium  that  shocked  her 
unutterably. 

Just  as  once  he  had  drawn  aside  for  her  the  veil  that 
shrouded  the  Holy  Place,  so  now  he  rent  open  the  gates  of 
hell  and  showed  her  the  horrors  of  the  prison-house,  forcing 
her  to  look  upon  them,  forcing  her  to  understand. 

She  clung  to  Jeanie's  hand  in  nightmare  fear.  The 
anguish  of  the  revelation  was  almost  unendurable.  She 
felt  as  if  he  had  caught  her  quivering  soul  and  was  thrusting 
it  into  an  inferno  from  which  it  could  never  rise  again. 
Through  and  above  that  awful  laughter  she  seemed  to  hear 
the  crackling  of  the  flames,  to  feel  the  blistering  heat  that 
had  consumed  so  many,  to  see  the  red  glare  of  the  furnace 
gaping  wide  before  her. 

She  cried  out  without  knowing  it,  and  covered  her  face. 
"0  God, "  she  prayed  wildly,  "save  us  from  this!  Save  us! 
Save  us!" 

The  man  at  the  piano  could  not  have  heard  her  cry.  Of 
that  she  was  certain.  But  their  souls  were  in  more  subtle 


420  The  Bars  of  Iron 

communion  than  any  established  by  bodily  word  or  touch. 
He  must  have  known,  have  fathomed  her  anguish.  For 
quite  suddenly,  as  if  a  restraining  hand  had  been  laid 
upon  him,  he  checked  that  dread  torrent  of  sound.  A  few 
bitter  chords,  a  few  stray  notes  that  somehow  spoke  to  her  of 
a  spirit  escaped  and  wandering  alone  and  naked  in  a  desert 
of  indescribable  emptiness,  and  then  silence — a  crushing, 
fearful  silence  like  the  ashes  of  a  burnt-out  fire. 

"And  in  hell  he  lift  up  his  eyes."  .  .  .  Why  did  those 
words  flash  through  her  brain  as  though  a  voice  had  uttered 
them?  She  bowed  her  head  lower,  lower,  barely  conscious 
of  Jeanie's  enfolding  arms.  She  was  as  one  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  vision,  hearing  words  that  were  spoken  to  her 
alone. 

"And  in  hell  he  lift  up  his  eyes,  being  in  torments.  ..." 

She  waited  quivering.  Surely  there  was  more  to  come. 
She  listened  for  it  even  while  she  shrank  in  every  nerve. 

It  came  at  length  slowly,  heavily,  like  a  death-sentence 
uttered  within  her.  "Between  us  and  you  there  is  a  great 
gulf  fixed :  so  that  they  which  would  pass  from  hence  to  you 
cannot;  neither  can  they  pass  to  us,  that  would  come  from 
thence." 

The  words  were  spoken,  the  vision  passed.  A  very  sat 
huddled  in  her  chair  as  one  stricken  to  the  earth,  rapt 
in  a  trance  of  dread  foreboding  from  which  Jeanie  was 
powerless  to  rouse  her. 

The  lightning  flashed  again,  and  the  thunder  crashed 
above  them  like  the  clanging  of  brazen  gates.  From  the 
room  behind  them  came  the  sound  of  a  man's  laugh,  but  it 
was  a  laugh  that  chilled  her  to  the  soul. 

Again  there  came  the  sound  of  the  piano, — a  tremendous 
chord,  then  a  slow-swelling  volume  of  harmony,  a  muffled 
burst  of  music  like  the  coming  of  a  great  procession  still 
far  away. 

Avery  sprang  upright  as  one  galvanized  into  action  by  an 


The  Great  Gulf  421 

electric  force.     "I  cannot  bear  it!"  she  cried  aloud.     "I 
cannot  bear  it!" 

She  almost  thrust  Jeanie  from  her.     "Oh,  go,  child,  go! 
Tell   him — tell   him — "      Her  voice   broke,   went  into  a* 
gasping  utterance  more  painful  than  speech,  finally  dropped 
into  hysterical  sobbing. 

Jeanie  sprang  into  the  dark  room  with  a  cry  of,  "Piers, 
oh,  Piers!"-— and  the  music  stopped,  went  out  utterly  as 
flame  extinguished  in  water. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Piers. 

His  voice  sounded  oddly  defiant,  almost  savage.  But 
Jeanie  was  too  precipitate  to  notice  it. 

"Oh,  please,  will  you  go  to  A  very?"  she  begged  breath 
lessly.  "  I  think  she  is  frightened  at  the  storm. " 

Piers  left  the  piano  with  a  single,  lithe  movement  that 
carried  him  to  the  window  in  a  second.  He  passed  Jeanie 
and  was  out  on  the  terrace  almost  in  one  bound. 

He  discerned  A  very  on  the  instant,  as  she  discerned  him. 
A  vivid  flash  of  lightning  lit  them  both,  lit  the  whole  scene, 
turned  the  night  into  sudden,  glaring  day.  Before  the 
thunder  crashed  above  them  he  had  caught  her  to  him. 
They  stood  locked  in  the  darkness  while  the  great  rever 
berations  rolled  over  their  heads,  and  as  he  held  her  he  felt 
the  wild  beating  of  her  heart  against  his  own. 

She  had  not  resisted  him,  she  did  not  resist  him.  She 
even  convulsively  clung  to  him.  But  her  whole  body  was 
tense  against  his,  tense  and  quivering  like  a  stretched  wire. 

As  the  last  of  the  thunder  died,  she  raised  her  head  and 
spoke. 

"Piers,  haven't  you  tortured  me  enough?" 

He  did  not  speak  in  answer.  Only  she  heard  his  breath 
indrawn  sharply  as  though  he  checked  some  headlong  word 
or  impulse. 

She  stifled  a  great  sob  that  took  her  unawares,  and  even  as 
she  did  so  she  felt  his  arms  slacken.  He  set  her  free. 


422  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  he  said.  "Better  come 
indoors  before  the  rain  begins." 

They  went  within,  Jeanie  pressing  close  to  Avery  in 
> tender  solicitude. 

They  turned  on  the  lights,  but  throughout  the  frightful 
storm  that  followed,  Piers  leaned  against  the  window- 
frame  sombrely  watching. 

Avery  sat  on  a  sofa  with  Jeanie,  her  throbbing  head  lean 
ing  against  the  cushions,  her  eyes  closed. 

Nearly  half  an  hour  passed  thus,  then  the  storm  rolled 
sullenly  away;  and  at  last  Piers  turned. 

As  though  his  look  pierced  her,  Avery's  eyes  opened.  She 
looked  back  at  him,  white  as  death,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

"Hadn't  you  better  send  Jeanie  to  bed ? "  he  said. 

Jeanie  rose  obediently.     "Good-night,  dear  Avery." 

Avery  sat  up.  Her  hand  was  pressed  hard  upon  her 
heart.  "I  am  coming  with  you,"  she  said. 

Piers  crossed  the  room  to  the  door.  He  held  it  open  for 
them. 

Jeanie  lifted  her  face  for  his  kiss.  An  unaccustomed 
shyness  seemed  to  have  descended  upon  her.  "Good 
night,"  she  whispered. 

He  bent  to  her.     "Good-night,  Jeanie!" 

Her  arms  were  round  his  neck  in  a  moment.  "Piers, 
thank  you  for  your  music,  but — but " 

"Good-night,  dear!"  said  Piers  again  gently,  but  with 
obvious  decision. 

"Good-night!"  said  Jeanie  at  once. 

She  would  have  passed  out  instantly,  but  Avery  paused, 
detaining  her. 

Her  eyes  were  raised  steadily  to  her  husband's  face.  "I 
will  say  good-night,  too,"  she  said.  "I  am  spending  the 
night  with  Jeanie.  She  is  not  used  to  sleeping  alone,  and — 
the  storm  may  come  back." 


The  Great  Gulf  423 

She  was  white  to  the  lips  as  she  said  it.  She  looked  as  if 
she  would  faint. 

"Oh,  but — "  began  Jeanie,  "  I  don't  mind  really.    I " 

With  a  brief,  imperious  gesture  Piers  silenced  her  for  the 
second  time.  He  looked  over  her  head,  straight  into  Avery's 
eyes  for  a  long,  long  second. 

Then:  "So  be  it!"  he  said,  and  with  ironical  ceremony  he 
bowed  her  out. 


CHAPTER  X 

SANCTUARY 

HULLO,  sonny!    You!" 
Edmund  Crowther  turned  from  his  littered  writing- 
table,  and  rose  to  greet  his  visitor  with  a  ready  smile  of 
welcome. 

"Hullo!"  said  Piers.  "How  are  you  getting  on?  I  was 
in  town  and  thought  I'd  look  you  up.  By  Jove,  though, 
you're  busy!  I'd  better  not  stay. " 

"Sit  down!"  said  Crowther. 

He  took  him  by  the  shoulders  with  kindly  force  and  made 
him  sit  in  his  easy-chair.  "I'm  never  too  busy  to  be  pleased 
to  see  you,  Piers, "  he  said. 

"Very  decent  of  you,"  said  Piers. 

He  spoke  with  a  short  laugh,  but  his  dark  eyes  roved 
round  restlessly.  There  was  no  pleasure  in  his  look. 

The  light  from  Crowther's  unshaded  lamp  flared  full 
upon  him.  In  his  faultless  evening  dress  he  looked  every 
inch  an  aristocrat.  That  air  of  the  old-Roman  patrician  was 
very  strong  upon  him  that  night.  But  there  was  something 
behind  it  that  Crowther  was  quick  to  note,  something  that 
reminded  him  vividly  of  an  evening  months  before  when  he 
had  fought  hand  to  hand  with  the  Evesham  devil  and  had 
with  difficulty  prevailed. 

He  pushed  his  work  to  one  side  and  foraged  in  his  cup 
board  for  drinks. 

Piers  watched  him  with  an  odd,  half -scoffing  smile  about 

424 


Sanctuary  425 

his  lips.  " Do  you  never  drink  when  you  are  by  yourself?" 
he  asked. 

"Not  when  I'm  working,"  said  Crowther. 

"I  see!    Work  is  sacred,  what?" 

Crowther  looked  at  him.  The  mockery  of  the  tone  had 
been  scarcely  veiled ;  but  there  was  no  consciousness  of  the 
fact  in  Crowther's  quiet  reply.  "Yes;  just  that,  sonny." 

Piers  laughed  again,  a  bitter,  gibing  laugh.  "I  suppose 
it's  more  to  you  than  your  own  soul — or  anyone  else's,"  he 
said. 

Crowther  paused  in  the  act  of  pouring  out.  "Now  what 
do  you  mean?"  he  said. 

His  eyes,  direct  and  level,  looked  full  at  Piers.  They 
held  no  anger,  no  indignation,  only  calm  enquiry. 

Piers  faced  the  look  with  open  mockery.  "I  mean,  my 
good  friend,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  asked  you  to  chuck  it  all 
and  go  round  the  world  with  me — you'd  see  me  damned 
first." 

Crowther's  eyes  dropped  gravely  to  the  job  in  hand. 
"Say  when!"  he  said. 

Piers  made  a  restless  movement.  "Oh,  that's  enough! 
Strong  drink  is  not  my  weakness.  Why  don't  you  answer 
my  question?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  asked  one,"  said  Crowther. 

He  set  the  tumbler  in  front  of  Piers  and  began  to  help 
himself. 

Piers  watched  him  for  a  couple  of  seconds  longer,  then 
leapt  impulsively  to  his  feet.  "Oh,  I'm  going!"  he  said. 
"I  was  a  fool  to  come!" 

Crowther  set  down  the  decanter  and  straightened  himself. 
He  did  not  seem  to  move  quickly,  but  he  was  at  the  door 
before  Piers  reached  it. 

He  stood  massively  before  him,  blocking  the  way. 
"You've  behaved  foolishly  a  good  many  times  in  your  life, 
my  lad/'  he  said.  "  But  I  shouldn't  call  you  a  fool.  Why  do 


426  The  Bars  of  Iron 

you  want  me  to  go  round  the  world  with  you?  Tell  me 
that!" 

His  tone  was  mild,  but  there  was  a  certain  grimness 
about  him  notwithstanding.  He  looked  at  Piers  with  a 
faint  smile  in  his  eyes  that  had  in  it  a  quality  of  resolution 
that  made  itself  felt.  Piers  stood  still  before  him,  half- 
chafing,  half-subdued. 

"Tell  me!"  Crowther  said  again. 

"Oh,  what's  the  good?"  With  a  defiance  that  was 
oddly  boyish  Piers  flung  the  question.  "I  see  I've  applied 
in  the  wrong  quarter.  Let  me  go!" 

"I  will  not,"  Crowther  said.  Deliberately  he  raised  a 
hand  and  pointed  to  the  chair  from  which  Piers  had  just 
sprung.  "Sit  down  again,  sonny,  and  we'll  talk." 

Piers  swung  round  with  an  impatient  gesture  and  went 
to  the  window.  He  threw  it  wide,  and  the  distant  roar 
of  traffic  filled  the  quiet  room  like  the  breaking  of  the  sea. 

After  a  distinct  pause  Crowther  followed  him.  They 
stood  together  gazing  out  over  the  dim  wilderness  of 
many  roofs  and  chimneys  to  where  the  crude  glare  of  an 
advertisement  lit  up  the  night  sky. 

Piers  was  absolutely  motionless,  but  there  was  a  species 
of  violence  in  his  very  stillness,  as  of  a  trapped  animal 
preparing  to  make  a  wild  rush  for  freedom.  His  attitude 
was  feverishly  tense. 

Suddenly  and  very  quietly  Crowther's  hand  came  forth 
and  linked  itself  in  his  arm.  "What  is  it,  lad?"  he  said. 

Piers  made  a  jerky  movement  as  if  to  avoid  the  touch,  but 
the  hand  closed  slowly  and  steadily  upon  him.  He  turned 
abruptly  and  met  Crowther's  eyes. 

"Crowther, "  he  said,  "I've  behaved  like  a  cur.  I — broke 
that  promise  I  made  to  you. " 

He  ground  out  the  words  savagely,  between  clenched 
teeth.  Yet  his  look  was  defiant  still.  He  held  himself  as 
a  man  defying  shame. 


Sanctuary  427 

Crowther's  eyes  never  varied."  They  looked  straight 
back  with  a  wide  kindliness  greater  than  compassion, 
wholly  devoid  of  reproach. 

"All  right,  Piers, "  he  said  simply. 

Piers  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  as  one  in  blank  amaze 
ment,  then  very  strangely  his  face  altered.  The  hardness 
went  from  it  like  a  mask  suddenly  rent  away.  He  made  an 
inarticulate  sound  and  turned  from  the  open  window. 

A  second  later  he  was  sunk  in  Crowther's  chair  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  sobbing  convulsively,  painfully,  uncon 
trollably,  in  an  agony  that  tore  like  a  living  thing  at  the  very 
foundations  of  his  being. 

A  smaller  man  than  Crowther  might  have  been  at  a  loss  to 
deal  with  such  distress,  but  Crowther  was  ready.  He  had 
seen  men  in  extremities  of  suffering  before.  He  knew 
how  to  ease  a  crushing  burden.  He  sat  down  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair  and  thrust  a  strong  hand  over  Piers'  shoulder, 
saying  no  word. 

Minutes  passed  ere  by  sheer  violence  that  bitter  anguish 
wore  itself  out  at  last.  There  came  a  long,  piteous  silence, 
then  Piers'  hand  feeling  blindly  upwards.  Crowther's  grip 
encompassed  it  like  a  band  of  iron,  but  still  for  a  space  no 
word  was  spoken. 

Then  haltingly  Piers  found  his  voice.  "I'm  sorry — 
beastly  sorry — to  have  made  such  an  ass  of  myself.  You're 
jolly  decent  to  me,  Crowther." 

To  which  Crowther  made  reply  with  a  tenderness  as 
simple  as  his  own  soul.  "You're  just  a  son  to  me,  lad." 

"A  precious  poor  specimen!"  muttered  Piers. 

He  remained  bowed  for  a  while  longer,  then  lifted  at 
length  a  face  of  awful  whiteness  and  leaned  back  upon 
Crowther's  arm,  still  fast  holding  to  his  hand. 

"You  know,  you're  such  an  awfully  good  chap,"  he  said, 
"that  one  gets  into  the  way  of  taking  you  for  granted.  But 
I  won't  encroach  on  your  goodness  much  longer.  You're 


428  The  Bars  of  Iron 

busy,  what?"  He  smiled  a  quivering  smile,  and  glanced 
momentarily  towards  the  littered  table. 

"It  will  keep,"  said  Crowther  quietly. 

"No,  it  won't.  Life  isn't  long  enough.  On  my  soul,  do 
you  know  it's  like  coming  into  sanctuary  to  enter  a  place  like 
this?  I  feel  as  if  I'd  shut  my  own  particular  devil  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  But  he'll  wait  for  me  all  right.  We 
shan't  lose  each  other  on  that  account." 

He  uttered  a  laugh  that  testified  more  to  the  utter 
weariness  of  his  soul  than  its  bitterness. 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  said  Crowther. 

"At  Marchmont's.  At  least  I've  got  a  room  there.  I 
haven't  any  definite  plans  at  present. " 

"  Unless  you  go  round  the  world  with  me, "  said  Crowther. 

Piers'  eyes  travelled  upwards  sharply.  "  No,  old  chap.  I 
didn't  mean  it.  I  wouldn't  have  you  if  you'd  come.  It 
was  only  a  try-on,  that." 

"Some  try-ons  fit,"  said  Crowther  gravely.  He  turned 
towards  the  table,  and  reached  for  the  drink  he  had  prepared 
for  Piers.  "Look  here,  sonny!  Have  a  drink!" 

Piers  drank  in  silence,  Crowther  steadily  watching. 

"You  would  have  to  be  back  by  March,"  he  said 
presently. 

"What?  "said  Piers. 

It  was  like  a  protest,  the  involuntary  startled  outcry  of 
the  patient  under  the  probe.  Crowther's  hand  grasped 
his  more  closely.  "I'll  go  with  you  on  that  understand 
ing,  Piers,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  wanted  then." 

Piers  groaned.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for — that,"  he  said, 
"I'd  have  ended  the  whole  business  with  a  bullet  before 
now." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Crowther  quietly.  "You 
don't  know  yourself,  boy,  when  you  talk  like  that.  You've 
given  up  Parliament  for  the  present?" 

"For  good,"  said  Piers.     He  paused,  as  if  bracing  him- 


Sanctuary  429 

self  for  a  great  effort.  "I  went  to  Colonel  Rose  yesterday 
and  told  him  I  must  withdraw.  He  had  heard  the  rumours 
of  course,  but  he  advised  me  to  hold  on.  I  told  him — I  told 
him — "  Piers  stopped  and  swallowed  hard,  then  forced 
himself  on, — "I  told  him  there  was  truth  in  it,  and  then — he 
let  me  go." 

There  fell  a  painful  silence,  broken  by  Crowther.  "How 
did  this  rumour  get  about  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  that  was  at  Ina  Rose's  wedding."  Piers'  words 
came  more  freely  now,  as  if  the  obstruction  were  passed. 
"A  cousin  of  Guyes',  the  bridegroom,  was  there.  He  came 
from  Queensland,  had  been  present  that  night  when  I  fought 
and  killed  Denys,  and  he  recognized  me.  Then — he  got 
tight  and  told  everybody  who  would  listen.  It  was  rotten 
luck,  but  it  had  to  happen."  He  paused  momentarily; 
then:  "I  wasn't  enjoying  myself,  Crowther,  before  it 
happened, "  he  said. 

"I  saw  that,  sonny."  Crowther's  arm  pressed  his 
shoulder  in  sympathy.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man 
to  display  understanding  rather  than  pity.  He  stood  ever 
on  the  same  level  with  his  friends,  however  low  that  level 
might  be. 

Again  Piers  looked  at  him  as  if  puzzled  by  his  atti 
tude.  "You've  done  me  a  lot  of  good,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"You've  made  me  see  myself  as  you  don't  see  me,  dear 
old  fellow,  and  never  would.  Well,  I'm  going.  Thanks 
awfully!" 

He  made  as  if  he  would  rise,  but  Crowther  restrained  him. 
"No,  lad.  I'm  not  parting  with  you  for  to-night.  We'll 
send  round  for  your  traps.  I'll  put  you  up." 

"What?  No.no,  you  can't!  I  shall  be  all  right.  Don't 
worry  about  me!" 

Piers  began  to  make  impulsive  resistance,  but  Crowther's 
hold  only  tightened. 

"I'm   not   parting   with   you   to-night,"   he   reiterated 


430  The  Bars  of  Iron 

firmly.  "And  look  here,  boy !  You've  come  to  me  for  help, 
and,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  I'll  help  you.  But  first, — 
are  you  sure  you  are  justified  in  leaving  home  ?  Are  you 
sure  you  are  not  wanted?" 

"Wanted!  I!"  Piers  looked  at  him  from  under  eye 
lids  that  quivered  a  little.  "Yes, "  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
with  a  deliberation  that  sounded  tragically  final.  "I  am 
quite  sure  of  that,  Crowther. " 

Crowther  asked  no  more.  He  patted  Piers'  shoulder 
gently  and  rose. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  that  six  months'  trip 
round  the  world  with  you." 

"But  you  can't!"  protested  Piers.  "I  never  seriously 
thought  you  could!  I  only  came  to  you  because — "  he 
halted,  and  a  slow,  deep  flush  mounted  to  his  forehead — 
"because  you've  saved  me  before,"  he  said.  "And  I  was 
so — so  horribly  near — the  edge  of  the  pit  this  time. " 

He  spoke  with  an  odd  boyishness,  and  Crowther's  lips 
relaxed  in  a  smile  that  had  in  it  something  of  a  maternal 
quality.  "So  long  as  I  can  help  you,  you  can  count  on  me, " 
he  said. 

"You're  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  can  help  me," 
Piers  said  impulsively.  "At  least — "  he  smiled  himself 
— "  I  couldn't  take  it  from  anyone  else.  But  I'm  not  taking 
this  from  you,  Crowther.  You've  got  your  own  pet  job 
on  hand,  and  I'm  not  going  to  hinder  it.  " 

Crowther  was  setting  his  writing-table  in  order.  He  did 
not  speak  for  a  few  seconds.  Then:  "I  am  a  man  under 
authority,  sonny, "  he  said.  "  My  own  pet  job,  as  you  call 
it,  doesn't  count  if  it  isn't  what's  wanted  of  me.  It  has 
waited  twenty-five  years;  it'll  keep — easy — for  another  six 
months. " 

Piers  got  up.  "I'm  a  selfish  brute  if  I  let  you, "  he  said, 
irresolutely. 

"You  can't  help  yourself,  my  son."     Crowther  turned 


Sanctuary  431 

calm  eyes  upon  him.  "And  now  just  sit  down  here  and 
write  a  line  home  to  say  what  you  are  going  to  do!" 

He  had  cleared  a  space  upon  the  table ;  he  pulled  forward 
a  chair. 

"Oh,  I  can't !     I  can't !"  said  Piers  quickly. 

But  Crowther's  hand  was  on  his  shoulder.  He  pressed 
him  down.  "Do  it,  lad!  It's  got  to  be  done,"  he  said. 

And  with  a  docility  that  sat  curiously  upon  him,  Piers 
submitted.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  wrote. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  FALLING  NIGHT 

"  WOU  ought  to  rest,  you  know,"  said  Tudor.  "  This  sort 
I  of  thing  is  downright  madness  for  you. " 

They  were  walking  together  in  the  February  twilight 
along  the  long,  dark  avenue  of  chestnuts  that  led  to  Rodding 
Abbey.  Avery  moved  with  lagging  feet  that  she  strove 
vainly  to  force  to  briskness. 

"  I  don't  think  I  do  too  much,  "  she  said.  "  It  isn't  good 
for  me  to  be  idle.  It  makes  me — it  makes  me  mope. " 

The  involuntary  falter  in  the  words  spoke  more  elo 
quently  than  the  words  themselves,  but  she  went  on  after  a 
moment  with  that  same  forced  briskness  to  which  she  was 
trying  to  compel  her  dragging  limbs.  "  I  only  ran  down  to 
the  Vicarage  after  lunch  because  it  is  Jeanie's  birthday.  It 
is  no  distance  across  the  Park.  It  seemed  absurd  to  go  in 
state. " 

"You  are  not  wise, "  said  Tudor  in  a  tone  that  silenced  all 
argument. 

Avery  gave  a  little  sigh  and  turned  from  the  subject.  "  I 
thought  Jeanie  looking  very  fragile.  Mrs.  Lorimer  has 
promised  that  she  may  come  to  me  again  just  as  soon  as  I  am 
able  to  have  her. " 

"Ah!  Jeanie  is  a  comfort  to  you?"  said  Tudor. 

To  which  she  answered  with  a  catch  in  her  breath,  "The 
greatest  comfort." 

They  reached  the  great  grey  house  and  entered.     A  lettei 


The  Falling  Night  433 

lay  on  the  table  by  the  door.  Avery  took  it  up  with  a  sharp 
shiver. 

"From  Piers?"  asked  Tudor  abruptly. 

She  bent  her  head.     "  He  writes — every  week. " 

"When  is  he  coming  home?"  He  uttered  the  question 
with  a  directness  that  sounded  almost  brutal,  but  Avery 
caught  the  note  of  anxiety  behind  it  and  understood. 

She  opened  the  letter  in  silence,  and  read  it  by  the  waning 
light  of  the  open  door.  The  crackling  of  the  fire  behind 
her  was  the  only  sound  within.  Without,  the  wind  moaned 
desolately  through  the  bare  trees.  It  was  going  to  rain. 

Slowly  Avery  raised  her  head  at  last  and  gazed  out  into 
the  gathering  dark. 

"Come  inside!"  said  Tudor  peremptorily. 

His  hand  closed  upon  her  arm,  he  almost  compelled  her. 
"How  painfully  thin  you  are!"  he  said,  as  she  yielded. 
"Are  you  starving  yourself  of  food  as  well  as  rest?" 

Again  she  did  not  answer  him.  Her  eyes  were  fixed, 
unseeing.  They  focused  their  gaze  upon  the  fire  as  he  led 
her  to  it.  She  sat  down  in  the  chair  he  placed  for  her 
and  then  very  suddenly  she  began  to  shiver  as  if  with  an 
ague. 

"Don't!"  said  Tudor  sharply. 

He  bent  over  her,  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  holding 
her. 

She  controlled  herself,  and  leaned  back.  "Do  sit  down, 
doctor!  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  rude — very  forgetful.  Will 
you  ring  for  tea?  Piers  is  in  town.  He  writes  very  kindly, 
very — very  considerately.  He  is  only  just  back  from 
Egypt — he  and  Mr.  Crowther.  The  last  letter  was  from 
Cairo.  Would  you — do  you  care  to  see  what  he  says?" 

She  offered  him  the  letter  with  the  words,  and  after  the 
faintest  hesitation  Tudor  took  it. 

"I  have  come  back  to  be  near  you."  So  without  pre 
liminary  the  letter  ran.  "  You  will  not  want  me,  I  know,  but 
28 


434  The  Bars  of  Iron 

still — I  am  here.  For  Heaven's  sake,  take  care  of  yourself, 
and  have  anything  under  the  sun  that  you  need.  Your 
husband,  Piers." 

It  only  covered  the  first  page.  Tudor  turned  the  sheet 
frowningly  and  replaced  it  in  its  envelope. 

"He  always  writes  like  that,"  said  Avery.  "Every 
week — all  through  the  winter — just  a  sentence  or  two.  I 
haven't  written  at  all  to  him  though  I've  tried — till  I 
couldn't  try  any  more." 

She  spoke  with  a  weariness  so  utter  that  it  seemed  to 
swamp  all  feeling.  Tudor  turned  his  frowning  regard  upon 
her.  His  eyes  behind  their  glasses  intently  searched  her 
face. 

"How  does  he  get  news  of  you?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Through  Mrs.  Lorimer.  She  writes  to  him  regularly,  I 
believe, — either  she  or  Jeanie.  I  suppose — presently " 

Avery  stopped,  her  eyes  upon  the  fire,  her  hands  tightly 
clasped  before  her. 

"Presently?"  said  Tudor. 

She  turned  her  head  slightly,  without  moving  her  eyes. 
"Presently  there  will  have  to  be  some — mutual  arrange 
ment  made.  But  I  can't  see  my  way  yet.  I  can't  consider 
the  future  at  all.  I  feel  as  if  night  were  falling.  Perhaps — 
for  me — there  is  no  future. " 

" May  I  take  your  pulse?"  said  Tudor. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  in  the  same  tired  fashion.  He 
took  it  gravely,  feeling  her  pulse,  his  eyes  upon  her 
face. 

"Have  you  no  relations  of  your  own?"  he  asked  her 
suddenly. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No  one  near.  My  parents  were 
both  only  children. " 

"And  no  friends?"  he  said. 

"Only  Mrs.  Lorimer.  I  lost  sight  of  people  when  I 
married.  And  then — "  Avery  halted  momentarily — 


The  Falling  Night  435 

"after  my  baby  girl  died,  for  a  long  time  I  didn't  seem  to 
care  for  making  new  friends." 

"Ah!"  said  Tudor,  his  tone  unwontedly  gentle.  "You 
will  soon  have  another  child  to  care  for  now. " 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  as  of  protest.  "  Do  you  know 
I  can't  picture  it?  I  do  not  feel  that  it  will  be  so.  I  believe 
one  of  us — or  both — will  die. " 

She  spoke  calmly,  so  calmly  that  even  Tudor,  with  all  his 
experience,  was  momentarily  shocked.  "A very!"  he  said 
sharply.  ' '  You  are  morbid ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  then  with  her  tired  eyes.  "Am  I?" 
she  said.  "I  really  don't  feel  particularly  sad — only  worn 
out.  When  anyone  has  been  burnt — badly  burnt — it 
destroys  the  nerve  tissues,  doesn't  it?  They  don't  suffer 
after  that  has  happened.  I  think  that  is  my  case. " 

"You  will  suffer,"  said  Tudor. 

He  spoke  brutally;  he  wanted  to  rouse  her  from  her 
lethargy,  to  pierce  somehow  that  dreadful  calm. 

But  he  failed;  she  only  faintly  smiled. 

"I  can  bear  bodily  suffering,"  she  said,  "particularly 
if  it  leads  to  freedom  and  peace." 

He  got  up  as  if  it  were  he  who  had  been  pierced.  "You 
won't  die!"  he  said  harshly.  "I  won't  let  you  die!" 

Her  eyes  went  back  to  the  fire,  as  if  attracted  thereto 
irresistibly.  "Most  of  me  died  last  August,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

"You  are  wrong!"  He  stood  over  her  almost  threaten 
ingly.  "When  you  hold  your  child  in  your  arms  you  will 
see  how  wrong.  Tell  me,  when  is  your  husband  coming 
back  to  you?" 

That  reached  her.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quick, 
hunted  look.  "Never!"  she  said. 

He  looked  back  at  her  mercilessly.  ' '  Never  is  a  long  time, 
Lady  Evesham.  Do  you  think  he  will  be  kept  at  arm's 
length  when  you  are  through  your  trouble?  Do  you  think 


436  The  Bars  of  Iron 

— whatever  his  sins — that  he  has  no  claim  upon  you? 
Mind,  I  don't  like  him.  I  never  did  and  I  never  shall. 
But  you — you  are  sworn  to  him." 

He  had  never  spoken  so  to  her  before.  She  flinched  as 
if  he  had  struck  her  with  a  whip.  She  put  her  hands  over 
her  face,  saying  no  word. 

He  stood  for  a  few  moments  stern,  implacable,  looking 
down  at  her.  Then  very  suddenly  his  attitude  changed. 
His  face  softened.  He  stooped  and  touched  her  shoulder. 

"Avery!"  His  voice  was  low  and  vehement;  he  spoke 
into  her  ear.  ' '  When  you  first  kicked  him  out,  I  was  mean 
enough  to  feel  glad.  But  I  soon  saw — that  he  took  all  that 
is  vital  in  you  with  him.  Avery, — my  dear, — for  God's 
sake — have  him  back!" 

She  did  not  speak  or  move,  save  for  a  spasmodic  shudder 
ing  that  shook  her  whole  frame. 

He  bent  lower.  "Avery,  I  say,  can't  you — for  the  baby's 
sake — anyway  consider  it  ? " 

She  flung  out  her  hands  with  a  cry.  "The  child  is 
cursed!  The  child  will  die!"  There  was  terrible  con 
viction  in  the  words.  She  lifted  a  tortured  face.  "Oh, 
don't  you  see, "  she  said  piteously,  "how  impossible  it  is  for 
me?  Don't — don't  say  any  more!" 

"I  won't,"  said  Tudor. 

He  took  the  outflung  hands  and  held  them  closely, 
restrainingly,  soothingly. 

"I  won't,"  he  said  again.  "Forgive  me  for  saying  so 
much!  Poor  girl!  Poor  girl!" 

His  lips  quivered  a  little  as  he  said  it,  but  his  hold  was 
full  of  sustaining  strength.  She  grew  gradually  calmer,  and 
finally  submitted  to  the  gentle  pressure  with  which  he  laid 
her  back  in  her  chair. 

"You  are  always  so  very  good  to  me, "  she  said  presently. 
"I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  ever  came  to — to — "  She 
stopped  herself  abruptly. 


The  Falling  Night  437 

"To  refuse  me?"  said  Tudor  quietly.  "I  always  knew 
why,  Lady  Evesham.  It  was  because  you  loved  another 
man.  It  has  been  the  case  for  as  long  as  I  have  known  you. " 

He  turned  from  her  with  the  words  wholly  without 
emotion  and  took  up  his  stand  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"Now  may  I  talk  to  you  about  your  health?"  he  said 
professionally. 

She  leaned  forward  slowly.  "Dr.  Tudor,  first  will  you 
make  me  a  promise?" 

He  smiled  a  little.  "  I  don't  think  so.  I  never  do  make 
promises." 

"Just  this  once!"  she  pleaded  anxiously.  "Because  it 
means  a  great  deal  to  me." 

"Well?"  said  Tudor. 

"It  is  only — "  she  paused  a  moment,  breathing  quickly 
— "only  that  you  will  not — whatever  the  circumstances 
— let  Piers  be  sent  for. " 

"  I  can't  promise  that,  "  said  Tudor  at  once. 

She  clasped  her  hands  beseechingly.  "You  must — 
please — you  must ! " 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  can't.  I  will  undertake  that  he 
shall  not  come  to  you  against  your  will.  I  can't  do  more 
than  that." 

"Do  you  suppose  you  could  keep  him  out?"  Avery  said, 
a  note  of  quivering  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"I  am  quite  sure  I  can,"  Tudor  answered  steadily. 
' '  Don't  trouble  yourself  on  that  head !  I  swear  that,  unless 
you  ask  for  him,  he  shall  not  come  to  you. " 

She  shivered  again  and  dropped  back  in  her  chair.  "I 
shall  never  do  that — never — never — so  long  as  I  am 
myself!" 

"Your  wishes — whatever  they  are — shall  be  obeyed," 
Tudor  promised  gravely. 

And  with  that  gently  but  very  resolutely  he  changed  the 
subject. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE     DREAM 

HOW  many  times  had  he  paced  up  and  down  the  ter 
race?     Piers  could  not   have   said.     He  had  been 
there  for  hours,  years,  half  a  lifetime,  waiting — waiting 
eternally  for  the  summons  that  never  came. 

Could  it  have  been  only  that  morning  that  Mrs.  Lorimer's 
urgent  telegram  had  reached  him?  Only  that  morning 
that  he  had  parted  from  Growth  er  for  the  first  time  in  six 
months?  It  seemed  aeons  ago.  And  yet  here  he  was  in 
the  cold  grey  dusk,  still  waiting  to  be  called  to  his  wife's 
side. 

The  night  was  fast  approaching — a  bitter,  cheerless 
night  with  a  driving  wind  that  seemed  to  promise  snow. 
It  was  growing  darker  every  moment.  Only  her  window 
shone  like  a  beacon  in  the  gloom,  How  long  would  he  have 
to  wait?  How  long?  How  long? 

He  had  brought  a  doctor  with  him  in  obedience  to  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  message,  transmitting  Tudor's  desire.  Tudor 
was  not  satisfied.  He  wanted  Maxwell  Wyndham,  the 
great  surgeon — a  man  still  comparatively  young  in  years 
but  high  in  his  profession — a  man  in  whose  presence — so 
it  was  said — no  patient  ever  died.  That  of  course  was  an 
exaggeration — some  hysterical  woman's  tribute  to  his 
genius.  But  genius  he  undoubtedly  possessed  and  that  of 
a  very  high  order. 

If  anyone  could  save  her,  it  would  be  Maxwell  Wyndham. 


The  Dream  439 

So  Piers  told  himself  each  time  he  turned  in  his  endless 
pacing  and  looked  at  that  lighted  window.  Tudor  believed 
in  him.  And — yes,  he  believed  in  him  also.  There  had 
been  something  in  the  great  man's  attitude,  something 
of  arrogant  self-assurance  that  had  inspired  him  with  con 
fidence  almost  against  his  will.  He  had  watched  him 
saunter  up  the  stairs  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets 
and  an  air  of  limitless  leisure  pervading  his  every  movement, 
and  he  had  been  exasperated  by  the  man's  deliberation  and 
subtly  comforted  at  the  same  time.  He  was  thankful  that 
he  had  been  able  to  secure  him. 

Ah,  what  was  that?  A  cry  in  the  night!  The  weird, 
haunting  screech  of  an  owl!  He  ridiculed  himself  for  the 
sudden  wild  thumping  of  his  heart.  But  would  they  never 
call  him?  This  suspense  was  tearing  at  the  very  roots  of 
his  being. 

Away  in  the  distance  a  dog  was  barking,  fitfully,  peevish 
ly — the  bark  of  a  chained  animal.  Piers  stopped  in  his 
walk  and  cursed  the  man  who  had  chained  him.  Then — as 
though  driven  by  an  invisible  goad — he  pressed  on,  walk 
ing  resolutely  with  his  back  turned  upon  the  lighted  win 
dow,  forcing  himself  to  pace  the  whole  length  of  the  terrace. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  further  end  when  a  sudden 
fragrance  swept  across  his  path — pure,  intoxicating, 
exquisitely  sweet.  Violets!  The  violets  that  grew  in  the 
great  bed  under  the  study-window!  The  violets  that  Sir 
Beverley's  bride  had  planted  fifty  years  ago ! 

The  thought  of  his  grandfather  went  through  him  like  a 
stab  through  the  heart.  He  clenched  his  hands  and  held 
his  breath  while  the  spasm  passed.  Never  since  the  night 
Victor  had  summoned  A  very  to  comfort  him,  had  he  felt  so 
sick  a  longing  for  the  old  man's  presence.  For  a  few  linger 
ing  seconds  it  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  Then 
he  turned  about  and  faced  the  chill  night-wind  and  that 
lighted  window,  and  the  anguish  of  his  vigil  drove  out  all 


44°  The  Bars  of  Iron 

other  griefs.  How  long  had  he  yet  to  wait?  How  long? 
How  long? 

There  came  a  low  call  behind  him  on  the  terrace.  He 
wheeled,  strangling  a  startled  exclamation  in  his  throat.  A 
man's  figure — a  broad,  powerful  figure — lounged  towards 
him.  He  seemed  to  be  wearing  carpet  slippers,  for  he  made 
no  sound.  It  was  Maxwell  Wyndham,  and  Piers'  heart 
ceased  to  beat.  He  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  All  the 
blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  be  singing  in  his  ears.  His 
head  was  burning,  the  rest  of  him  cold — cold  as  ice.  He 
would  have  moved  to  meet  the  advancing  figure,  but 
he  could  not  stir.  He  could  only  stop  and  listen  to 
that  maddening  tarantella  beating  out  in  his  fevered 
brain. 

"I  say,  you  know — "  the  voice  came  to  him  out  of  an 
immensity  of  space,  as  though  uttered  from  another  world — 
"it's  a  bit  too  chilly  for  this  sort  of  thing.  Why  didn't  you 
put  on  an  overcoat?" 

A  man's  hand,  strong  and  purposeful,  closed  upon  his 
arm  and  impelled  him  towards  the  house. 

Piers  went  like  an  automaton,  but  he  could  not  utter  a 
word.  His  mouth  felt  parched,  his  tongue  powerless. 

Avery !  Avery !  The  woman  he  had  wronged — the  woman 
he  worshipped  so  madly — for  whom  his  whole  being  mental 
and  physical  craved  desperately,  yearning,  unceasingly, — 
without  whom  he  lived  in  a  torture  that  was  never  dor 
mant!  Avery!  Avery!  Was  she  lying  dead  behind  that 
lighted  window?  If  so,  if  so,  those  six  months  of  torment 
had  been  in  vain.  He  would  end  his  misery  swiftly  and 
finally  before  it  turned  his  brain. 

Maxwell  Wyndham  was  guiding  him  towards  the  con 
servatory  where  a  dim  light  shone.  It  was  like  an  altar- 
flame  in  the  darkness — that  place  where  first  their  lips  had 
met.  The  memory  of  that  night  went  through  him  like  a 
sword-thrust.  Oh,  Avery!  Oh,  Avery! 


The  Dream  441 

"  Now  look  here, "  said  Maxwell  Wyndham,  in  his  steady, 
emotionless  voice;  "you're  wanted  upstairs,  but  you  can't 
go  unless  you  are  absolutely  sure  of  yourself. " 

Wanted!  His  senses  leapt  to  the  word.  Instinctively 
he  pulled  himself  together,  collecting  all  his  strength.  He 
spoke,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  speech  was  not 
difficult. 

"She  has  asked  for  me?" 

"Yes;  but,"  Wyndham's  tone  was  impressive,  "I  warn 
you,  she  is  not  altogether  herself.  And — she  is  very 
desperately  ill." 

"The  child?"  questioned  Piers. 

"The  child  never  breathed."  Curt  and  cold  came  the 
answer.  "I  have  had  to  concentrate  all  my  energies  upon 
saving  the  mother's  life,  and — to  be  open  with  you — I  don't 
think  I  have  succeeded.  There  is  still  a  chance,  but — " 
He  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

They  had  reached  the  conservatory,  and,  entering,  it 
was  Piers  who  led  the  way.  His  face,  as  they  emerged  into 
the  library,  was  deathly,  but  he  was  absolute  master  of 
himself. 

"I  believe  there  is  a  meal  in  the  dining-room,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  help  yourself  while  I  go  up?" 

"No,"  said  Wyndham  briefly.  "I  am  coming  up  with 
you." 

He  kept  a  hand  upon  Piers'  arm  all  the  way  up  the  stairs, 
deliberately  restraining  him,  curbing  the  fevered  impetu 
osity  that  urged  him  with  a  grim  insistence  that  would  not 
yield  an  inch  to  any  chafing  for  freedom. 

He  gave  utterance  to  no  further  injunctions,  but  his 
manner  was  eloquent  of  the  urgent  need  for  self-repression. 
When  Piers  entered  his  wife's  room,  that  room  which  he  had 
not  entered  since  the  night  of  Ina's  wedding,  his  tread  was 
catlike  in  its  caution,  and  all  the  eagerness  was  gone  from  his 
face. 


442  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Then  only  did  the  doctor's  hand  fall  from  him,  so  that 
he  advanced  alone. 

She  was  lying  on  one  side  of  the  great  four-poster,  straight 
and  motionless  as  a  recumbent  figure  on  a  tomb.  Her 
head  was  in  deep  shadow.  He  could  see  her  face  only  in 
vaguest  outline. 

Softly  he  approached,  and  Mrs.  Lorimer,  rising  silently 
from  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  made  room  for  him.  He  sat 
down,  sinking  as  it  were  into  a  great  abyss  of  silence, 
listening  tensely,  but  hearing  not  so  much  as  a  breath. 

The  doctor  took  up  his  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
In  the  adjoining  room  sat  Lennox  Tudor,  watching  cease 
lessly,  expectantly,  it  seemed  to  Piers.  Behind  him  moved 
a  nurse,  noiselessly  intent  upon  polishing  something  that 
flashed  like  silver  every  time  it  caught  his  eye. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  silence  there  came  a  voice.  "  If  I  go 
down  to  hell, — Thou  art  there  also.  If  I  take  the  wings  of 
the  morning — the  wings  of  the  morning — "  There  came 
a  pause,  the  difficult  pause  of  uncertainty — "  the  wings 
of  the  morning — "  murmured  the  voice  again. 

Piers  leaned  upon  the  pillow.     "A very!"  he  said. 

She  turned  as  if  some  magic  moved  her.  Her  hands 
came  out  to  him,  piteously  weak  and  trembling.  "Piers, 
— my  darling!"  she  said. 

He  gathered  the  poor  nerveless  hands  into  a  tight  clasp, 
kissing  them  passionately.  He  forgot  the  silent  watcher  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  forgot  little  Mrs.  Lorimer  hovering  in  the 
shadows,  and  Tudor  waiting  with  the  nurse  behind  him. 
They  all  slipped  into  nothingness,  and  Avery — his  wife — 
alone  remained  in  a  world  that  was  very  dark. 

Her  voice  came  to  him  in  a  weak  whisper.  "Oh,  Piers, 
I've  been — wanting  you  so!" 

"My  own  darling!"  he  whispered  back.  "I  will  never 
leave  you  again!" 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will ! "  she  answered  drearily.     "You  always 


The  Dream  443 

say  that,  but  you  are  always  gone  in  the  morning.  It's 
only  a  dream — only  a  dream!" 

He  slipped  his  arms  beneath  her  and  drew  her  to  his 
breast.  "It  is  not  a  dream,  Avery,"  he  told  her  very 
earnestly.  "I  am  here  in  the  flesh.  I  am  holding  you." 

"I  know,"  she  said.     "It's  always  so." 

The  weary  conviction  of  her  tone  smote  cold  to  his 
heart.  He  gathered  her  closer  still.  He  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  forehead. 

"Avery,  can't  you  feel  me? "  he  said. 

Her  head  sank  against  his  shoulder.  "Yes — yes,"  she 
said.  "But  you  have  always  done  that." 

"Done  what,  darling?" 

"  Imposed  your  will  on  mine — made  me  feel  you. "  Her 
voice  quivered;  she  began  to  cry  a  little,  weakly,  like  a  tired 
child.  "Do  you  remember — what  you  said — about — about 
— the  ticket  of  leave  ? ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  leave  your  dungeon 
— my  poor  Piers.  But  you  have  to  go  back  again — when 
the  leave  has  expired.  And  I — I  am  left  alone. " 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  face.  He  wiped  them 
tenderly  away. 

"My  dearest,  if  you  want  me — if  you  need  me, — I  will 
stay,"  he  said. 

"But  you  can't,"  she  said  hopelessly.  "Even  to-night 
— even  to-night — I  thought  you  were  never  coming.  And  I 
went  at  last  to  look  for  you — behind  your  iron  bars.  But, 
oh,  Piers,  the  agony  of  it !  And  I  couldn't  reach  you  after 
all,  though  I  tried  so  hard — so  hard. " 

"Never  mind,  my  darling!"  he  whispered.  "We  are 
together  now." 

"But  we  shan't  be  when  the  morning  comes,"  sobbed 
Avery.  "I  know  it  is  all  a  dream.  It's  happened  so 
many,  many  times. " 

He  clasped  her  closer,  hushing  her  with  tender  words, 
vowing  he  would  never  leave  her,  while  the  Shadow  of 


444  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Death  gathered  closer  about  them,  threatening  every 
instant  to  come  between. 

She  grew  calmer  at  last,  and  presently  sank  into  a  state 
of  semi-consciousness  lying  against  his  breast. 

Time  passed.  Piers  did  not  know  how  it  went.  With  his 
wife  clasped  in  his  arms  he  sat  and  waited,  waited — for  the 
falling  of  a  deeper  night  or  the  coming  of  the  day — he  knew 
not  which.  His  brain  felt  like  a  stopped  watch;  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  working  at  all.  Even  the  power  to  suffer  seemed 
to  have  left  him.  He  felt  curiously  indifferent,  strangely 
submissive  to  circumstances, — like  a  man  scourged  into  the 
numbness  of  exhaustion.  He  knew  at  the  back  of  his  mind 
that  as  soon  as  his  vitality  reasserted  itself  the  agony  would 
return.  The  respite  could  not  last,  but  while  it  lasted  he 
knew  no  pain.  Like  one  in  a  state  of  coma,  he  was  not  even 
aware  of  thought. 

It  might  have  been  hours  later,  or  possibly  only  minutes, 
that  Maxwell  Wyndham  came  round  to  his  side  and  bent 
over  him,  a  quiet  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  had  better  lay  her  down,"  he  said.  "She  won't 
wake  now." 

"What?"  said  Piers  sharply. 

The  words  had  stabbed  him  back  to  understanding  in  a 
second.  He  glared  at  the  doctor  with  eyes  half-savage, 
half-frightened. 

"No,  no!"  said  Wyndham  gently.  "I  don't  mean  that. 
She  is  asleep.  She  is  breathing.  But  she  will  rest  better  if 
you  lay  her  down. " 

The  absolute  calmness  with  which  he  spoke  took  effect 
upon  Piers.  He  yielded,  albeit  not  very  willingly,  to  the 
mandate. 

They  laid  her  down  upon  the  pillow  between  them,  and 
then  for  many  seconds  Wyndham  stood,  closely  watching, 
almost  painfully  intent.  Piers  waited  dumbly,  afraid  to 
move,  afraid  to  speak. 


The  Dream  445 

The  doctor  turned  to  him  at  last.  "What  about  that 
meal  you  spoke  of?  Shall  we  go  down  and  get  it?" 

Piers  stared  at  him.  "  I  am  not  leaving  her, "  he  said  in 
a  quick  whisper. 

Wyndham's  hand  was  on  his  shoulder  again — a  steady, 
compelling  hand.  "Oh  yes,  you  are.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,"  he  said.  "She  is  sleeping  naturally,  and  she  won't 
wake  for  some  time.  Come!" 

There  was  nothing  peremptory  about  him,  yet  he  gained 
his  end.  Piers  rose.  He  hung  for  a  moment  over  the  bed, 
gazing  hungrily  downwards  upon  the  shadowy,  motionless 
form,  then  in  silence  turned. 

Tudor  had  risen.  He  met  them  in  the  doorway,  and 
between  him  and  the  London  doctor  a  few  words  passed. 
Then  the  latter  pushed  his  hand  through  Piers'  arm,  and 
drew  him  away. 

They  descended  the  wide  oak  stairs  together  and  entered 
the  dining-room.  Piers  moved  like  a  man  dazed.  His 
companion  went  straight  to  the  table  and  poured  out  a 
drink,  which  he  immediately  held  out  to  Piers,  looking  at 
him  with  eyes  that  were  green  and  very  shrewd. 

"  I  think  we  shall  save  her, "  he  said. 

Piers  drank  in  great  gulps,  and  came  to  himself.  "  I  say, 
I'm  beastly  rude!"  he  said,  with  sudden  boyishness.  "For 
goodness'  sake,  help  yourself!  Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

Maxwell  Wyndham  seated  himself  with  characteristic 
deliberation  of  movement.  He  had  fiery  red  hair  that 
shone  brazenly  in  the  lamplight. 

"I  can't  eat  by  myself,  Sir  Piers,"  he  remarked,  after  a 
moment.  "And  it  isn't  particularly  good  for  you  to  drink 
without  eating  either .  in  your  present  frame  of  mind. " 

Piers  sat  down,  his  attitude  one  of  intense  weariness. 
"You  really  think  she'll  pull  through?"  he  said. 

"I  think  so,"  Wyndham  answered.  "But  it  won't  be  a 
walk  over.  She  will  be  ill  for  a  long  time. " 


446  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"I'll  take  her  away  somewhere,"  said  Piers.  "A  quiet 
time  at  the  sea  will  soon  pick  her  up. " 

Maxwell  Wyndham  said  nothing. 

Piers  glanced  at  him  with  quick  impatience.  "Don't 
you  advise  that?" 

The  green  eyes  countered  his  like  the  turn  of  a  sword- 
blade.  "Certainly  quiet  is  essential,"  said  "Wyndham 
enigmatically. 

Piers  made  a  chafing  movement.     ' '  What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"I  mean,"  very  calmly  came  the  answer,  "that  if  you 
really  value  your  wife's  welfare,  you  will  let  someone  else 
take  her  away." 

It  was  a  straight  thrust,  and  it  went  home.  Piers 
flinched  sharply.  But  in  a  moment  he  had  recovered 
himself.  He  was  on  guard.  He  looked  at  Wyndham  with 
haughty  enquiry. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  her  peace  of  mind  depends  upon  it."  Wynd- 
ham's  answer  came  with  brutal  directness.  "You  will 
find,  when  this  phase  of  extreme  weakness  is  past,  that  your 
presence  is  not  desired.  She  may  try  to  hide  it  from  you. 
That  depends  upon  the  kind  of  woman  she  is.  But  the  fact 
will  remain — does  remain — that  for  some  reason  best  known 
to  yourself,  she  shrinks  from  you.  I  am  not  speaking  rashly 
without  knowledge.  When  a  woman  is  in  agony  she  can't 
help  showing  her  soul.  I  saw  your  wife's  soul  to-day.  " 

Piers  was  white  to  the  lips.  He  sat  rigid,  no  longer  look 
ing  at  the  doctor,  but  staring  beyond  him  fixedly  at  a 
•woman's  face  on  the  wall  that  smiled  and  softly  mocked. 

"What  did  she  say  to  you?"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

'"She  said,"  curtly  Wyndham  made  reply, — "it  was  at  a 
time  when  she  could  hardly  speak  at  all — 'Even  if  I  ask  for 
my  husband,  don't  send — don't  send ! ' ' 

"Yet  you  fetched  me ! "  Piers'  eyes  came  swiftly  back  to 
him;  they  shone  with  a  fierce  glint. 


The  Dream  447 

But  Wyndham  was  undismayed.  "I  fetched  you  to 
save  her  life, "  he  said.  "There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
She  was  in  delirium,  and  nothing  else  would  calm  her. " 

"And  she  wanted  me!"  said  Piers.  "She  begged  me 
to  stay  with  her!" 

"I  know.  It  was  a  passing  phase.  When  her  brain  is 
normal,  she  will  have  forgotten. " 

Piers  sprang  to  his  feet  with  sudden  violence.  "But — 
damn  it — she  is  my  wife!"  he  cried  out  fiercely. 

Maxwell  Wyndham  leaned  across  the  table.  "She  is 
your  wife — yes,"  he  said.  "But  isn't  that  a  reason  for 
considering  her  to  the  very  utmost  ?  Have  you  always  done 
that,  I  wonder?  No,  don't  answer!  I've  no  right  to  ask. 
Only — you  know,  doctors  are  the  only  men  in  the  world  who 
know  just  what  women  have  to  put  up  with,  and  the  know 
ledge  isn't  exactly  exhilarating.  Give  her  a  month  or  two 
to  get  over  this!  You  won't  be  sorry  afterwards. " 

It  was  kindly  spoken,  so  kindly  that  the  flare  of  anger 
died  out  of  Piers  on  the  instant,  and  the  sweetness  dormant 
in  him — that  latent  sweetness  that  had  won  A  very 's  heart — 
came  swiftly  to  the  surface. 

He  threw  himself  down  again,  looking  into  the  alert, 
green  eyes  with  an  oddly  rueful  smile.  "All  right,  doctor!" 
he  said.  "I  shan't  go  to  her  if  she  doesn't  want  me.  But 
I've  got  to  make  sure  she  doesn't,  haven't  I?  What?" 

There  was  a  wholly  unconscious  note  of  pathos  in  the 
last  word  that  sent  the  doctor's  mouth  up  at  one  corner 
in  a  smile  that  was  more  pitying  than  humorous.  "I 
should  certainly  do  that,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  afraid 
you'll  find  I've  told  you  the  beastly  truth." 

"For  which  I  am  obliged  to  you, "  said  Piers,  with  a  bow. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE     HAND     OF     THE     SCULPTOR 

DURING  the  week  that  followed,  no  second  summons 
came  to  Piers  from  his  wife's  room.  He  hung  about 
the  house,  aimless,  sick  at  heart,  with  hope  sinking  ever 
lower  within  him  like  a  fire  dying  for  lack  of  replenishment. 

He  could  neither  sleep  nor  eat,  and  Victor  watched  him 
with  piteous  though  unspoken  solicitude.  Victor  knew 
the  wild,  undisciplined  temperament  of  the  boy  he  had 
cherished  from  his  cradle,  and  he  lived  in  hourly  dread  of 
some  sudden  passionate  outburst  of  rebellion,  some  desper 
ate  act  that  should  lead  to  irremediable  disaster.  He  had  not 
forgotten  that  locked  drawer  in  the  old  master's  bureau 
or  the  quick  release  it  contained,  and  he  never  left  Piers 
long  alone  in  its  vicinity. 

But  he  need  not  have  been  afraid.  Piers'  thoughts 
never  strayed  in  that  direction.  If  his  six  months  in 
Crowther's  society  had  brought  him  no  other  comfort,  they 
had  at  least  infused  in  him  a  saner  outlook  and  steadier 
balance.  Very  little  had  ever  passed  between  them  on  the 
subject  of  the  tragedy  that  had  thrown  them  together. 
After  the  first  bitter  outpouring  of  his  soul,  Piers  had 
withdrawn  himself  with  so  obvious  a  desire  for  privacy  that 
Crowther  had  never  attempted  to  cross  the  boundary 
thus  clearly  defined.  But  his  influence  had  made  itself 
felt  notwithstanding.  It  would  have  been  impossible  to 
have  lived  with  the  man  for  so  long  without  imbibing  some 

448 


The  Hand  of  the  Sculptor  449 

of  that  essential  greatness  of  soul  that  was  his  main  char 
acteristic,  and  Piers  was  ever  swift  to  feel  the  effect  of 
atmosphere.  He  had  come  to  look  upon  Crowther  with 
a  reverence  that  in  a  fashion  affected  his  daily  life.  That 
which  Crowther  regarded  as  unworthy,  he  tossed  aside  him 
self  without  consideration.  Crowther  had  not  despised 
him  at  his  worst,  and  he  was  determined  that  he  would 
show  himself  to  be  not  despicable.  He  was  moreover 
under  a  solemn  promise  to  return  to  Crowther  when  he 
found  himself  at  liberty,  and  in  very  gratitude  to  the  man 
he  meant  to  keep  that  promise. 

But,  albeit  he  was  braced  for  endurance,  the  long  hours 
of  waiting  were  very  hard  to  bear.  His  sole  comfort  lay  in 
the  fact  that  Avery  was  making  gradual  progress  in  the  right 
direction.  It  was  a  slow  and  difficult  recovery,  as  Maxwell 
Wyndham  had  foretold,  but  it  was  continuous.  Tudor 
assured  him  of  this  every  day  with  a  curt  kindliness  that  had 
grown  on  him  of  late.  It  was  his  own  fashion  of  showing 
a  wholly  involuntary  sympathy  of  which  he  was  secretly 
half-ashamed,  and  which  he  well  knew  Piers  would  have 
brooked  in  no  other  form.  It  established  an  odd  sort 
of  truce  between  them  of  which  each  was  aware  the  while  he 
sternly  ignored  it.  They  could  never  be  friends.  It  was 
fundamentally  impossible,  but  at  least  they  had,  if  only 
temporarily,  ceased  to  be  enemies. 

Little  Mrs.  Lorimer's  sympathy  was  also  of  a  half- 
ashamed  type.  She  did  not  want  to  be  sorry  for  Piers,  but 
she  could  not  wholly  restrain  her  pity.  The  look  in  his  eyes 
haunted  her.  Curiously  it  made  her  think  of  some  splen 
did  animal  created  for  liberty,  and  fretting  its  heart  out  in 
utter,  hopeless  misery  on  a  chain. 

She  longed  with  all  her  motherly  heart  to  comfort  him, 
and  by  the  irony  of  circumstance  it  fell  to  her  to  deal  the 
final  blow  to  what  was  left  of  his  hope.  She  wondered 
afterwards  how  she  ever  brought  herself  to  the  task,  but  it 


450  The  Bars  of  Iron 

was  in  reality  so  forced  upon  her  that  she  could  not  evade 
it.  Avery,  lying  awake  during  the  first  hours  of  a  still 
night,  heard  her  husband's  feet  pacing  up  and  down  the 
terrace,  and  the  mischief  was  done.  She  was  thrown  into 
painful  agitation  and  wholly  lost  her  sleep  in  consequence. 
When  Mrs.  Lorimer  arrived  about  noon  on  the  following 
day,  she  found  her  alarmingly  weak,  and  the  nurse  in 
evident  perplexity. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  something  worrying  her,"  the  latter 
said  to  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "I  can't  think  what  it  is. " 

But  directly  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  alone  with  Avery,  the 
trouble  came  out.  For  she  reached  out  fevered  hands  to 
her,  saying,  "Why,  oh,  why  did  you  persuade  me  to  come 
back  here?  I  knew  he  would  come  if  I  did!" 

Again  the  emergency  impelled  Mrs.  Lorimer  to  a  display 
of  common-sense  with  which  few  would  have  credited  her. 

"Oh,  do  you  mean  Piers,  dear?"  she  said.  "But  surely 
you  are  not  afraid  of  him !  He  has  been  here  all  the  time — 
ever  since  you  were  so  ill. " 

"And  I  begged  you  not  to  send!''  groaned  Avery. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer  very  gently,  "it  was  his 
right  to  be  here." 

"Then  that  night — that  night — "  gasped  Avery,  "he 
really  did  come  to  me — that  night  after  the  baby  was  born.  " 

"  My  darling,  you  begged  for  him  so  piteously, "  said  Mrs 
Lorimer  apologetically. 

:  Avery 's  lip  quivered.  "That  was  just  what  I  feared — 
what  I  wanted  to  make  impossible, "  she  said.  "When  one 
is  suffering,  one  forgets  so.  " 

"But  surely  it  was  the  cry  of  your  heart,  darling, "  urged 
Mrs.  Lorimer  tremulously.  "And  do  you  know — poor  lad! 
— he  looks  so  ill,  so  miserable. " 

But  Avery's  face  was  turned  away.  "I  can't  help  it," 
she  said.  "  I  can't — possibly — see  him  again.  I  feel  as  if — 
as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  us  both,  and  that  is  why  the 


The  Hand  of  the  Sculptor  451 

baby  died.  Oh  yes,  morbid,  I  know;  perhaps  wrong.  But 
— I  have  been  steeped  in  sin.  I  must  be  free  for  a  time.  I 
can't  face  him  yet.  I  haven't  the  strength. " 

"Dearest,  he  will  never  force  himself  upon  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Lorimer. 

Avery's  eyes  went  instinctively  to  the  door  that  led  into 
the  room  that  Piers  had  occupied  after  his  marriage.  The 
broken  bolt  had  been  removed,  but  not  replaced.  A  great 
shudder  went  through  her.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"Oh,  beg  him — beg  him  to  go  away,"  she  sobbed,  "till 
I  am  strong  enough  to  go  myself!" 

Argument  was  useless.  Mrs.  Lorimer  abandoned  it 
with  the  wisdom  born  of  close  friendship.  Instead,  she 
clasped  Avery  tenderly  to  her  and  gave  herself  to  the  task  of 
calming  her  distress. 

And  when  that  was  somewhat  accomplished,  she  left  her 
to  go  sadly  in  search  of  Piers. 

She  found  him  sitting  on  the  terrace  with  the  morning- 
paper  beside  him  and  Caesar  pressed  close  to  his  legs,  his 
great  mottled  head  resting  on  his  master's  knee. 

He  was  not  reading.  So  much  Mrs.  Lorimer  perceived 
before  with  a  sharp  turn  of  the  head  he  discovered  her. 
He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment,  and  she  saw  his  boy 
ish  smile  for  an  instant,  only  for  an  instant,  as  he  came  to 
meet  her.  She  noted  with  a  pang  how  gaunt  he  looked  and 
how  deep  were  the  shadows  about  his  eyes.  Then  he  had 
reached  her.  and  was  holding  both  her  hands  almost  before 
she  realized  it. 

"I  say,  you're  awfully  good  to  come  up  every  day  like 
this,"  he  said.  "I  can't  think  how  you  make  the  time. 
Splendid  sun  to-day,  what?  It's  like  a  day  in  summer, 
if  you  can  get  out  of  the  wind.  Come  and  bask  with 
me!" 

He  drew  her  along  the  terrace  to  his  sheltered  corner, 


452  The  Bars  of  Iron 

and  made  her  sit  down,  spreading  his  newspaper  on  the 
stone  seat  for  her  accommodation.  Her  heart  went  out  to 
him  as  he  performed  that  small  chivalrous  act.  She  could 
not  help  it.  And  suddenly  the  task  before  her  seemed  so 
monstrous  that  she  felt  she  could  not  fulfil  it.  The  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Piers  gently.  He  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  slipped  an  encouraging  hand  through  her 
arm.  "Was  it  something  you  came  out  to  say?  Don't 
mind  me!  You  don't,  do  you?" 

His  voice  was  softly  persuasive.  He  leaned  towards  her, 
his  dark  eyes  searching  her  face.  Mrs.  Lorimer  felt  as  if  she 
were  about  to  hurt  a  child. 

She  blew  her  nose,  dried  her  eyes,  and  took  the  brown 
hand  very  tightly  between  her  own.  "My  dear,  I'm  so 
sorry  for  you — so  sorry  for  you  both!"  she  said. 

A  curious  little  glint  came  and  went  in  the  eyes  that 
watched  her.  Piers'  fingers  closed  slowly  upon  hers. 

"I've  got  to  clear  out,  what?"  he  said. 

She  nodded  mutely ;  she  could  not  say  it. 

He  was  silent  awhile;  then:  "All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll 
go  this  afternoon." 

His  voice  was  dead  level,  wholly  emotionless,  but  for  a 
few  seconds  his  grip  taxed  her  endurance  to  the  utmost. 
Then,  abruptly,  it  relaxed. 

He  bent  his  black  head  and  kissed  the  nervous  little 
hands  that  were  clasped  upon  his  own. 

"  Don't  you  fret  now ! "  he  said,  with  an  odd  kindness  that 
was  to  her  more  pathetic  than  any  appeal  for  sympathy. 
"You've  got  enough  burdens  of  your  own  to  bear  without 
shouldering  ours.  How  is  Jeanie?" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  choked  down  a  sob.  "She  isn't  a  bit  well. 
She  has  a  cold  and  such  a  racking  cough.  I'm  keeping  her 
in  bed." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Piers  steadily.     "Give  her  my 


The  Hand  of  the  Sculptor  453 

love!  And  look  here,  when  A  very  is  well  enough,  let  them 
go  away  together,  will  you?  It  will  do  them  both  good." 

"It's  dear  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer 
wistfully.  "Yes,  it  did  do  Jeanie  good  in  the  autumn. 
But  A  very " 

"It  will  do  Avery  good  too,"  he  said.  "She  can  take 
that  cottage  at  Stanbury  Cliffs  for  the  whole  summer  if  she 
likes.  Tell  her  to!  And  look  here!  Will  you  take  her  a 
message  from  me?" 

"A  written  message?"  asked  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

He  pulled  out  a  pocket-book.     "Six  words,"  he  said. 

He  scrawled  them,  tore  out  the  leaf  and  gave  it  to  her, 
holding  it  up  before  her  eyes  that  she  might  read  it. 

"Good-bye  till  you  send  for  me.     Piers." 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "Thanks  awfully.  She'll  under 
stand  that.  And  now — I  say,  you're  not  going  to  cry  any 
more,  are  you?"  He  shook  his  head  at  her  with  a  laugh  in 
his  eyes.  "  You  really  mustn't.  You're  much  too  tender 
hearted.  I  say,  it  was  a  pity  about  the  baby,  what?  I 
thought  the  baby  might  have  made  a  difference.  But 
it'll  be  all  the  same  presently.  She's  wanting  me  really. 
I've  known  that  ever  since  that  night — you  know — ever 
since  I  held  her  in  my  arms. " 

He  spoke  with  absolute  simplicity.  She  had  never  liked 
him  better  than  at  that  moment.  His  boyishness  had 
utterly  disarmed  her,  and  not  till  later  did  she  realize  how 
completely  he  had  masked  his  soul  therewith. 

She  parted  with  him  with  a  full  heart,  and  had  a  strictly 
private  little  cry  on  his  account  ere  she  returned  to  Avery. 
Poor  lad !  Poor  lad !  And  when  he  wasn't  smiling,  he  did 
look  so  ill ! 

The  same  thought  struck  Crowther  a  few  hours  later  as 
Piers  sat  with  him  in  his  room,  and  devoted  himself  with 
considerable  adroitness  to  making  his  fire  burn  through  as 
quickly  as  possible,  the  while  he  briefly  informed  him  that 


454  The  Bars  of  Iron 

his  wife  was  considered  practically  out  of  danger  and  had  no 
further  use  for  him  for  the  present. 

Crowther's  heart  sank  at  the  news  though  he  gave  no 
sign  of  dismay. 

"What  do  you  think  of  doing,  sonny?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment. 

"I?  Why,  what  is  there  for  me  to  do?"  Piers  glanced 
round  momentarily.  "I  wonder  what  you'd  do,  Crowther, '* 
he  said,  with  a  smile  that  was  scarcely  gay. 

Crowther  came  to  his  side,  and  stood  there  massively, 
while  he  filled  his  pipe.  "Piers,"  he  said,  "I  presume  she 
knows  all  there  is  to  know  of  that  bad  business?" 

Piers  rammed  the  poker  a  little  deeper  into  the  fire  and 
said  nothing. 

But  Crowther  had  broken  through  the  barricade  of  silence 
at  last,  and  would  not  be  denied. 

"Does  she  know,  Piers? "  he  insisted.  " Did  you  ever  tell 
her  how  the  thing  came  to  pass?  Does  she  know  that  the 
quarrel  was  forced  upon  you — that  you  took  heavy  odds — 
that  you  did  not  of  your  own  free  will  avoid  the  conse 
quences?  Docs  she  know  that  you  loved  her  before  you 
knew  who  she  was  ? ' ' 

He  paused,  but  Piers  remained  stubbornly  silent,  still 
prodding  at  the  red  coals. 

He  bent  a  little,  taking  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Piers, 
answer  me ! ' ' 

Again  Piers'  eyes  glanced  upwards.  His  face  was  hard. 
"Oh,  get  away,  Crowther!"  he  growled.  "What's  the 
good  ? "  And  then  in  his  winning  way  he  gripped  Crowther's 
hand  hard.  "No,  I  never  told  her  anything, "  he  said.  "And 
I  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  ask.  I  couldn't  urge  extenu 
ating  circumstances  because  there  weren't  any.  Moreover, 
it  wouldn't  have  made  a  ha'porth's  difference  if  I  had.  So 
shunt  the  subject  like  a  good  fellow!  She  must  take  me  at 
my  worst — at  my  worst,  do  you  hear? — or  not  at  all." 


The  Hand  of  the  Sculptor  455 

"But,  my  dear  lad,  you  owe  it  to  her,"  began  Crowther 
gravely. 

Piers  cut  him  short  with  a  recklessness  that  scarcely 
veiled  the  pain  in  his  soul.  "No,  I  don't!  I  don't  owe 
her  anything.  She  doesn't  think  any  worse  of  me  than  I  am. 
She  knows  me  jolly  well, — better  than  you  do,  most  worthy 
padre-elect.  If  she  ever  forgives  me,  it  won't  be  because 
she  thinks  I've  been  punished  enough,  but  just  because  she 
is  my  mate, — and  she  loves  me. "  His  voice  sank  upon  the 
words. 

"And  you  are  going  to  wait  for  that?"  said  Crowther. 

Piers  nodded.  He  dropped  the  poker  -with  a  careless 
clatter  and  stretched  his  arms  high  above  his  head.  "You 
once  said  something  to  me  about  the  Hand  of  the  Sculptor, " 
he  said.  ' '  Well,  if  He  wants  to  do  any  shaping  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  now  is  His  time.  I  am  willing  to  be  shaped. " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Crowther. 

Piers'  eyes  were  half -closed,  and  there  was  a  drawn  look 
about  the  lids  as  of  a  man  in  pain.  "I  mean,  my  good 
Crowther, "  he  said,  "that  the  mire  and  clay  have  ceased  to 
attract  me.  My  house  is  empty — swept  and  garnished, — 
but  it  is  not  open  to  devils  at  present.  You  want  to  know 
my  plans.  I  haven't  any.  I  am  waiting  to  be  taken  in 
hand." 

He  spoke  with  a  faint  smile  that  moved  Crowther  to  deep 
compassion.  "You  will  have  to  be  patient  a  long  while, 
maybe,  sonny,  "  he  said. 

"I  can  be  patient,"  said  Piers.  He  shifted  his  position 
slightly,  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head,  so  that  his  face 
was  in  shadow.  "You  think  that  is  not  much  like  me, 
Crowther, "  he  said.  "But  I  can  wait  for  a  thing  if  I  feel  I 
shall  get  it  in  the  end.  I  have  felt  that — ever  since  the 
night  after  I  went  down  there.  She  was  so  desperately  ill. 
She  wanted  me — just  to  hold  her  in  my  arms. "  His  voice 
quivered  suddenly.  He  stopped  for  a  few  seconds,  then 


456  The  Bars  of  Iron 

went  on  in  a  lower  tone.  "She  wasn't — quite  herself  at  the 
time — or  she  would  never  have  asked  for  me.  But  it  made 
a  difference  to  me  all  the  same.  It  made  me  see  that  pos 
sibly — just  possibly — there  is  a  reason  for  things, — that 
even  misery  and  iron  may  have  their  uses — that  there  may 
be  something  behind  it  all — what? — Something  Divine." 

He  stopped  altogether,  and  pushed  his  chair  further  still 
into  shadow. 

Crowther  was  smoking.  He  did  not  speak  for  several 
seconds,  but  smoked  on  with  eyes  fixed  straight  before  him 
as  though  they  scanned  a  far-distant  horizon.  At  length: 
"I  rather  think  the  shaping  has  begun,  sonny,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  believe  in  prayer  now?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Piers. 

Crowther's  eyes  came  down  to  him.  "Can't  you  pray 
without  believing?"  he  said  slowly. 

Piers  made  a  restless  movement.  "What  should  I  pray 
for?" 

Crowther  was  smiling  slightly — the  smile  of  a  man  who 
has  begun  to  see,  albeit  afar  off,  the  fulfilment  of  a  beloved 
project. 

"Do  you  know,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "I  expect  I  seem  a 
fool  to  you;  but  it's  the  fools  who  confound  the  wise,  isn't 
it?  I  believe  a  thundering  lot  in  prayer.  But  I  didn't 
always.  I  prayed  without  believing  for  a  long  time  first." 

"That  seems  to  me  like  offering  an  insult  to  God,"  said 
Piers. 

"I  don't  think  He  views  it  in  that  light,"  said  Crowther, 
"any  more  than  He  blames  a  blind  man  for  feeling  his  way. 
The  great  thing  is  to  do  it — to  get  started.  You're  wanting 
a  big  thing  in  life.  Well, — ask  for  it !  Don't  be  afraid  of 
asking!  It's  what  you're  meant  to  do." 

He  drew  a  long  whiff  from  his  pipe  and  puffed  it  slowly 
forth. 

There  fell  a  deep  silence  between  them.     Piers  sat  in 


457 

absolute  stillness,  gazing  downwards   into  the   fire  with 
eyes  still  half-closed. 

Suddenly  he  jerked  back  his  head.  "It's  a  bit  of  a 
farce,  what?"  he  said.  "But  I'll  do  it  on  your  recom 
mendation.  I'll  give  it  a  six  months'  trial,  and  see  what 
comes  of  it.  That's  a  fair  test  anyhow.  Something  ought 
to  turn  up  in  another  six  months." 

He  got  to  his  feet  with  a  laugh,  and  stood  in  front  of 
Crowther  with  a  species  of  challenge  in  his  eyes.  He  looked 
as  if  he  expected  rebuke,  and  were  prepared  to  meet  it  with 
arrogance. 

But  Crowther  uttered  neither  reproach  nor  admonition. 
He  met  the  look  with  the  utmost  kindliness — the  most 
complete  understanding. 

"Something  will  turn  up,  lad,"  he  said,  with  steady 
conviction.  "But  not — probably — in  the  way  you  expect. " 

Piers'  face  showed  a  momentary  surprise.  "How  on 
earth  do  you  know?"  he  said. 

"I  do  know,"  Crowther  made  steadfast  reply;  but  he 
offered  no  explanation  for  his  confidence. 

Piers  thrust  out  an  impulsive  hand.  "You  may  be  right 
and  you  may  not;  but  you've  been  a  brick  to  me,  old 
fellow, "  he  said,  a  note  of  deepfeelingin  his  voice, — "several 
kinds  of  a  brick,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it.  If  you 
ever  get  into  the  Church,  you'll  be  known  as  the  parson  who 
doesn't  preach,  and  it'll  be  a  reputation  to  be  proud  of." 

Crowther's  answering  grip  was  the  grip  of  a  giant.  There 
was  a  great  tenderness  in  the  far-seeing  grey  eyes  as  he 
made  reply.  "  It  would  be  rank  presumption  on  my  part  to 
preach  to  you,  lad.  You  are  made  of  infinitely  finer  stuff 
than  I." 

"Oh,  rats!"  exclaimed  Piers  in  genuine  astonishment. 

But  the  elder  man  shook  his  head  with  a  smile.  "No; 
facts,  Piers!"  he  said.  "There  are  greater  possibilities  in 
you  than  I  could  ever  attain  to. " 


458  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"  Possibilities  for  evil  then. "  said  Piers,  with  a  very  bitter 
laugh. 

Crowther  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "And  possi 
bilities  for  good,  my  son, "  he  said.  "  They  grow  together, 
thank  God." 


PART  III 
THE  OPEN  HEAVEN 


499 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   VERDICT 

"  IT'S  much  better  than  learning  by  heart,"  said  Jeanie, 

1  with  her  tired  little  smile.  "Somehow,  you  know,  I 
can't  learn  by  heart — at  least  not  long  things.  Father  says 
it  is  because  my  brain  is  deficient.  But  Mother  says  hers 
is  just  the  same,  so  I  don't  mind  so  much. " 

"My  dear,  it  will  take  you  hours  to  read  through  all 
this,"  said  A  very,  surveying  with  dismay  the  task  which 
the  Vicar  had  set  his  small  daughter. 

"Yes, "  said  Jeanie.  "  I  am  to  devote  three  hours  of  every 
day  to  it.  I  had  to  promise  I  would. "  She  gave  a  short 
sigh.  "It's  very  good  for  me,  you  know, "  she  said. 

"Is  it?"  said  A  very.  She  smoothed  back  the  brown 
hair  lovingly.  "You  mustn't  overwork,  Jeanie  darling," 
she  said. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Jeanie  quietly.  "You  see,  I 
promised. " 

That  she  would  keep  her  promise,  whatever  the  cost,  was 
evidently  a  foregone  conclusion ;  and  Avery  could  say  nothing 
against  it. 

She  left  the  child  to  work  therefore,  and  wandered  down 
herself  to  the  shore. 

It  was  June.  A  soft  breeze  came  over  the  sea,  salt  and 
pure,  with  the  life-giving  quality  of  the  great  spaces.  She 
breathed  it  deeply,  thankfully,  conscious  of  returning 
strength. 

4*: 


462  The  Bars  of  Iron 

She  and  Jeanie  had  arrived  only  the  week  before,  and  she 
was  sure  their  visit  was  going  to  do  wonders  for  them  both. 
Her  own  convalescence  had  been  a  protracted  one,  but  she 
told  herself  as  she  walked  along  the  beach  towards  the 
smiling,  evening  sea  that  she  was  already  stronger  than  her 
companion.  The  old  lassitude  was  evidently  very  heavy 
upon  Jeanie.  The  smallest  exertion  seemed  to  tax  her 
energies  to  the  utmost.  She  had  never  shaken  off  her 
cough,  and  it  seemed  to  wear  her  out. 

Avery  had  spoken  to  Lennox  Tudor  about  her  more  than 
once,  but  he  never  discussed  the  subject  willingly.  He  was 
never  summoned  to  the  Vicarage  now,  and,  when  they 
chanced  to  meet,  the  Vicar  invariably  reserved  for  him  the 
iciest  greeting  that  courtesy  would  permit.  Tudor  had 
defeated  him  once  on  his  own  ground,  and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  forget  it.  So  poor  Jeanie's  ailments  were  given 
none  but  home  treatment  to  alleviate  them,  and  it  seemed  to 
Avery  that  her  strength  had  dwindled  almost  perceptibly 
of  late. 

She  pondered  the  matter  as  she  strolled  along  the  shore, 
debating  with  herself  if  she  would  indeed  take  a  step  that 
she  had  been  contemplating  for  some  time,  and,  now  that 
Jeanie  was  in  her  care,  take  her  up  to  town  and  obtain 
Maxwell  Wyndham's  opinion  with  regard  to  her.  It  was 
a  project  she  had  mentioned  to  no  one,  and  she  hesitated 
a  good  deal  over  putting  it  into  practice.  That  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer  would  readily  countenance  such  an  act  she  well  knew, 
but  she  was  also  aware  that  it  would  be  regarded  as  a  piece 
of  rank  presumption  by  the  child's  father  which  might 
easily  be  punished  by  the  final  withdrawal  of  Jeanie  from 
her  care.  That  was  a  contingency  which  she  hardly  desired 
to  risk.  Jeanie  had  become  so  infinitely  precious  to  her  in 
those  days. 

Unconsciously  her  feet  had  turned  towards  their  old 
haunt.  She  found  herself  halting  by  the  low  square  rock 


The  Verdict  463 

on  which  Piers  once  had  sat  and  cursed  the  sea-birds  in 
bitterness  of  spirit.  Often  as  she  had  visited  the  spot  since, 
she  had  never  done  so  without  the  memory  of  that  spring 
morning  flashing  unbidden  through  her  brain.  It  went 
through  her  now  like  a  sharp  dart  of  physical  pain;  the 
boyish  figure,  the  ardent  eyes,  the  black  hair  plastered 
wet  on  the  wide,  patrician  brow.  Her  heart  contracted. 
She  seemed  to  hear  again  the  eager,  wooing  words. 

He  never  wrote  to  her  now.  She  believed  he  was  in  town, 
probably  amusing  himself  as  he  had  amused  himself  at 
Monte  Carlo,  passing  the  time  in  a  round  of  gaieties,  care 
less  flirtations,  possibly  deeper  intrigues.  Crowther  had 
probably  kept  him  straight  through  the  winter,  but  she  did 
not  believe  that  Crowther's  influence  would  be  lasting. 
There  was  a  sting  in  the  very  thought  of  Crowther.  She  was 
sure  now  that  he  had  always  known  the  bitter  secret  that 
Piers  had  kept  from  her.  It  had  been  the  bond  between 
them.  Piers  had  obviously  feared  betrayal,  but  Crowther 
had  not  deemed  it  his  business  to  betray  him.  He  had 
suffered  the  deception  to  continue.  She  recognized  that 
his  position  had  been  a  difficult  one;  but  it  did  not  soften 
her  heart  towards  him.  Her  heart  had  grown  hard  towards 
all  men  of  late.  She  sometimes  thought  that  but  for 
Jeanie  it  would  have  atrophied  altogether.  There  were  so 
few  things  nowadays  that  seemed  to  touch  her.  She  could 
not  even  regret  her  lost  baby.  But  yet  the  memory  of 
Piers  sitting  on  that  rock  at  her  feet  pierced  her  oddly; 
Piers,  the  passionate,  the  adoring,  the  hot-blooded;  Piers 
the  invincible;  Piers  the  prince! 

She  turned  from  the  spot  with  a  wrung  feeling  of  heart 
break.  She  wished — how  she  wished — that  she  had  died! 

In  that  moment  she  realized  that  she  was  no  longer  alone. 
A  man's  figure,  thick-set  and  lounging,  was  sauntering 
towards  her  along  the  sand.  He  seemed  to  move  with 
extreme  leisureliness,  yet  his  approach  was  but  a  matter  of 


464  The  Bars  of  Iron 

seconds.  His  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  his  hat  rammed 
down  over  his  eyes. 

There  seemed  to  her  to  be  something  vaguely  familiar 
about  him,  though  wherein  it  lay  she  could  not  have  told. 
She  stood  and  awaited  him  with  the  certainty  that  he  was 
coming  with  the  express  purpose  of  joining  her.  She  knew 
him;  she  was  sure  she  knew  him,  though  who  he  was  she 
had  not  the  faintest  idea. 

He  reached  her,  lifted  his  cap,  and  the  sun  glinted  on  a 
head  of  fiery  red  hair.  "I  thought  I  was  not  mistaken, 
Lady  Evesham,  "  he  said. 

She  recognized  him  with  an  odd  leap  of  the  pulses,  and 
in  a  moment  held  out  her  hand.  "Dr.  Wyndham!"  she 
said.  "How  amazing!" 

"Why  amazing?"  said  Wyndham.  He  held  her  hand 
for  a  second  while  his  green  eyes  scanned  her  face.  When 
he  dropped  it  she  felt  that  he  had  made  a  full  and  exhaustive 
inspection,  and  she  was  strangely  disconcerted,  as  if  in  some 
fashion  he  had  gained  an  unfair  advantage  over  her. 

"Amazing  that  you  should  be  here,"  she  explained,  with 
a  flush  of  embarrassment. 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,"  he  said.  "I  am 
staying  at  Brethaven  for  a  couple  of  days  with  my  wife's 
people.  It's  only  ten  miles  away,  you  know.  And  I 
bicycled  over  here  on  the  chance  of  seeing  you. " 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?"  she  asked. 

"From  your  husband.  I  told  him  I  was  coming  in  this 
direction,  and  he  suggested  that  I  should  come  over  and 
look  you  up."  Very  casually  he  made  reply,  and  he  could 
not  have  been  aware  of  the  flood  of  colour  his  words  sent  to 
her  face,  for  he  continued  in  the  same  cool  fashion  as  he 
strolled  by  her  side.  "I  was  afraid  you  might  consider  it  an 
unpardonable  liberty,  but  he  assured  me  you  wouldn't. 
So —  '  the  green  eyes  smiled  upon  her  imperturbably — 
"as  I  am  naturally  interested  in  your  welfare,  I  took  my 


The  Verdict  465 

courage  in  both  hands  and,  at  the  risk  of  being  considered 
unprofessional, — I  came." 

It  was  unexpected,  but  it  was  disarming.  Avery  found 
herself  smiling  in  answer. 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "But  your 
coming  just  at  this  time  is  rather  amazing  all  the  same,  for 
I  was  thinking  of  you,  wishing  I  could  see  you,  only  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  said  Maxwell  Wyndham. 

She  hesitated  a  little  before  the  direct  question;  then  as 
simply  as  he  had  asked  she  answered,  laying  the  matter 
before  him  without  reservation. 

He  listened  in  his  shrewd,  comprehending  way,  asking 
one  or  two  questions,  but  making  no  comments. 

"There  need  be  no  difficulty  about  it, "  he  said,  when  she 
ended.  "You  say  the  child  is  tractable.  Keep  her  in  bed 
to-morrow,  and  say  a  medical  friend  of  yours  is  coming  over 
to  see  if  he  can  do  anything  for  her  cough !  Then  if  you'll 
ask  me  to  lunch — I'll  do  the  rest." 

He  smiled  as  he  ended,  and  thrust  out  his  hand. 

"I'll  be  going  now.  I  left  my  bicycle  in  the  village  and 
hope  to  find  it  still  there.  Now  remember,  Lady  Evesham, 
my  visit  to-morrow  is  to  be  of  a  strictly  unprofessional 
character.  You  didn't  send  for  me,  so  I  shall  assume  the 
privilege  of  coming  as  a  friend.  Is  that  understood?" 

He  spoke  with  smiling  assurance,  and  seeing  that  he 
meant  to  gain  his  point  she  yielded  it. 

Not  till  he  was  gone  did  she  come  to  ponder  the  errand 
that  had  brought  him  thither. 

She  went  back  to  Jeanie,  and  found  her  with  aching  eyes 
fixed  resolutely  on  her  book.  Yes,  she  was  a  little  tired,  but 
she  would  rather  go  on,  thank  you.  Oh  no,  she  did  not 
mind  staying  in  bed  to-morrow  to  please  Avery,  and  she  was 
sure  she  would  like  Avery's  doctor  though  she  didn't  expect 
he  would  manage  to  stop  the  cough.  She  would  have  to  do 


466  The  Bars  of  Iron 

her  task  though  all  the  same;  dear  Avery  mustn't  mind. 
You  see,  she  had  promised.  But  she  would  certainly  stay 
in  bed  if  Avery  wished. 

And  then  came  the  tired  sigh,  and  then  that  racking, 
cruel  cough  that  seemed  to  rend  her  whole  frame.  No,  she 
would  not  finish  for  another  hour  yet.  Really  she  must  go 
on. 

The  brown  head  dropped  on  to  the  little  bony  hands,  and 
Jeanie  was  immersed  once  more  in  her  task. 

More  than  once  in  the  night  Avery  awoke  to  hear  that 
tearing,  breathless  cough  in  the  room  next  to  hers.  It  was 
no  new  thing,  but  in  view  of  the  coming  ordeal  it  filled  her 
with  misgiving. 

When  she  rose  herself  in  the  morning  she  felt  weighed 
down  with  anxious  foreboding. 

Yet,  when  Maxwell  Wyndham  arrived  in  his  sauntering, 
informal  fashion  at  about  noon,  she  was  able  to  meet  him 
with  courage.  There  was  something  electric  about  his 
personality  that  seemed  almost  unconsciously  to  impart 
strength  to  the  downhearted.  He  had  drawn  her  back  from 
the  very  Door  of  Death,  and  her  confidence  in  him  was 
absolute. 

They  lunched  alone  together,  and  talked  of  many  things. 
More  than  once,  wholly  incidentally,  he  mentioned  her 
husband.  She  gathered  that  he  did  not  know  of  their 
bitter  estrangement.  He  talked  of  the  polo-craze,  with 
which  it  seemed  Piers  was  badly  bitten,  and  commented 
on  his  splendid  horsemanship. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  wonderful  athlete,"  Avery  said. 

She  wondered  if  he  deemed  her  unresponsive,  but  decided 
that  he  set  her  coldness  down  to  anxiety;  for  he  finished  his 
luncheon  without  lingering  and  declared  himself  ready  for 
the  business  in  hand. 

He  became  in  fact  strictly  business-like  from  that  moment, 
and  throughout  the  examination  that  followed  she  had  not 


The  Verdict  467 

the  faintest  notion  as  to  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  To 
Jeanie  he  was  curtly  kind,  but  to  herself  he  was  as  utterly 
uncommunicative  as  if  he  had  been  a  total  stranger. 

The  examination  was  a  protracted  one,  and  more  painful 
than  A  very  had  thought  possible.  It  taxed  poor  Jeanie's 
powers  of  endurance  to  the  uttermost,  and  long  before  it  was 
finished  she  was  weeping  from  sheer  exhaustion.  He  was 
absolutely  patient  with  her,  but  he  insisted  upon  carrying 
the  matter  through,  remaining  when  it  was  at  last  over 
until  she  had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  ordeal. 

To  A  very  the  suspense  was  well-nigh  unbearable;  but  she 
dared  not  show  the  impatience  that  consumed  her.  She 
had  a  feeling  that  in  some  fashion  the  great  doctor  was 
depending  upon  her  self-control,  her  strength  of  mind;  and 
she  was  determined  that  he  should  not  find  her  wanting. 

Yet,  when  she  at  length  preceded  him  downstairs  and 
into  the  little  sitting-room  she  wondered  if  the  hammering 
of  her  heart  reached  him,  so  tremendous  were  its  strokes. 
They  seemed  to  her  to  be  beating  out  a  death-knell  in  her 
soul. 

"You  will  tell  me  the  simple  truth,  I  know,"  she  said, 
and  waited,  straining  to  catch  his  words  above  the  clamour. 

He  answered  her  instantly  with  the  utmost  quietness,  the 
utmost  kindness. 

"Lady  Evesham,  your  own  heart  has  already  told  you  the 
truth." 

She  put  out  a  quick  hand,  and  he  took  it  and  held  it 
firmly,  sustainingly,  while  he  went  on. 

"There  is  nothing  whatever  to  be  done.  Give  her  rest, 
that's  all;  absolute  rest.  She  looks  as  if  she  has  been 
worked  beyond  her  strength.  Is  that  so?" 

Avery  nodded  mutely. 

"It  must  stop,"  he  said.  "She  is  in  a  very  precarious 
state,  and  any  exertion,  mental  or  physical,  is  bound  to 
hasten  the  end — which  cannot,  in  any  case,  be  very  far  off. " 


468  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  released  Avery's  hand  and  walked  to  the  window, 
where  he  stood  gazing  out  to  sea  with  drawn  brows. 

"The  disease  is  of  a  good  many  months'  standing,"  he 
said.  "It  has  taken  very  firm  hold.  Such  a  child  as  that 
should  have  been  sheltered  and  cosseted,  shielded  from 
every  hardship.  Even  then — very  possibly — this  would 
have  developed.  No  one  can  say  for  certain." 

"Can  you  advise — nothing?"  said  A  very  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  oddly  dull  and  emotionless  even  to  herself. 

"Nothing,"  said  Maxwell  Wyndham.  "No  medical 
science  can  help  in  a  case  like  this.  Give  her  everything 
she  wants,  and  give  her  rest!  That  is  all  you  can  do  for 
her  now." 

Avery  came  and  stood  beside  him.  The  blow  had  fallen, 
but  she  had  scarcely  begun  to  feel  its  effects.  There  was 
so  much  to  be  thought  of  first. 

"Please  be  quite  open  with  me!"  she  said.  "Tell  me 
how  long  you  think  she  will  live!" 

He  turned  slightly  and  looked  at  her.  "I  can  tell  you 
what  I  think,  Lady  Evesham, "  he  said.  "But,  remember, 
that  does  not  bring  the  end  any  nearer." 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

She  looked  straight  back  at  him  with  eyes  unflinching, 
and  after  a  moment's  thought  he  spoke. 

"I  think  that — given  every  care — she  may  live  through 
the  summer,  but  I  do  not  consider  it  likely." 

Avery's  face  was  very  pale,  but  still  she  did  not  flinch. 
"Will  she  suffer?"  she  asked. 

He  raised  his  brows  at  the  question.  "  My  dear  lady,  she 
has  suffered  already  far  more  than  you  have  any  idea  of. 
One  lung  is  practically  gone,  wholly  useless.  The  other  is 
rapidly  going  the  same  way.  She  has  probably  suffered  for 
a  year  or  more,  first  lassitude,  then  shortness  of  breath, 
and  pretty  often  actual  paiu.  Hasn't  she  complained  of 
these  things?" 


The  Verdict  469 

" She  is  a  child  who  never  complains, "  Avery  said.  "But 
both  her  mother  and  I  thought  she  was  wasting. " 

"She  is  mere  skin  and  bone,"  he  said.  "Now — about 
her  people,  Lady  Evesham;  who  is  going  to  tell  them? 
You  or  I?" 

She  hesitated.  "But  I  could  hardly  ask  you  to  do  that, " 
she  said. 

"  You  may  command  me  in  any  way, "  he  answered.  "If 
I  may  presume  to  advise,  I  should  say  that  the  best  course 
would  be  for  me  to  go  to  Rodding,  see  the  doctor  there,  and 
get  him  to  take  me  to  the  Vicarage. " 

"Oh,  but  they  mustn't  take  her  from  me!"  Avery  said. 
"Let  her  mother  come  here!  She  can't — she  mustn't — go 
back  home!" 

"Exactly  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  he  returned,  in  his 
quiet  practical  fashion.  "  To  take  her  back  there  would  be 
madness.  But  look  here,  Lady  Evesham,  you  must  have  a 
nurse." 

' '  Oh,  not  yet ! ' '  said  Avery.  ' '  I  am  quite  strong  now.  I 
am  used  to  nursing.  I  have — no  other  call  upon  me.  Let 
me  do  this!" 

"None?"  he  said. 

His  tone  re-called  her.  She  coloured  burningly.  "  My 
husband — would  understand, "  she  said,  with  difficulty. 

He  passed  the  matter  by.  "Will  you  promise  to  send 
me  a  message  if  you  find  night-nursing  a  necessity?" 

She  hesitated. 

He  frowned.  "Lady  Evesham,  you  must  promise  me 
this  in  fairness  to  the  child  as  well  as  to  yourself.  Also,  you 
will  give  me  your  word  that  you  will  never  under  any 
circumstances  sleep  with  her." 

She  saw  that  he  would  have  his  way,  and  she  yielded  both 
points  rather  than  fight  a  battle  which  instinct  warned 
her  she  could  not  win. 

"Then  I  will  be  going,"  he  said. 


470  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  again  she  was  aware  of 
his  green  eyes  surveying  her  closely,  critically.  But  he 
made  no  reference  whatever  to  her  health,  and  inwardly 
she  blessed  him  for  his  forbearance. 

She  did  not  know  that  as  he  rode  away,  he  grimly 
remarked  to  himself:  "The  best  tonics  generally  taste  the 
bitterest,  and  she'll  drink  this  one  to  the  dregs,  poor  girl! 
But  it'll  help  her  in  the  end. " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  TIDE  COMES  BACK 

IVE  her  everything  she  wants!"  How  often  in  the 
days  that  followed  were  those  words  in  Avery's 
mind!  She  strove  to  fulfil  them  to  the  uttermost,  but 
Jeanie  seemed  to  want  so  little.  The  only  trouble  in  her 
existence  just  then  was  her  holiday-task,  and  that  she 
steadily  refused  to  relinquish  unless  her  father  gave  her 
leave. 

A  few  days  after  Maxwell  Wyndham's  departure  there 
came  an  agonized  letter  from  Mrs.  Lorimer.  Olive  had 
just  developed  scarlet  fever,  and  as  they  could  not  afford 
a  nurse  she  was  nursing  her  herself.  She  entreated  Avery 
to  send  her  daily  news  of  Jeanie  and  to  telegraph  at  once 
should  she  become  worse.  She  added  in  a  pathetic  post 
script  that  her  husband  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that 
Jeanie  could  be  as  ill  as  the  great  doctor  had  represented, 
and  she  feared  he  was  a  little  vexed  that  Maxwell  Wynd 
ham's  opinion  had  been  obtained. 

It  was  exactly  what  Avery  had  expected  of  him.  She 
wrote  a  soothing  letter  to  Mrs.  Lorimer,  promising  to  keep 
her  informed  of  Jeanie's  condition,  promising  to  lavish 
every  care  upon  the  child,  and  begging  her  to  persuade  Mr. 
Lorimer  to  remit  the  task  which  had  become  so  heavy  a 
burden. 

The  reply  to  this  did  not  come  at  once,  and  Avery  had 
repeated  the  request  twice  very  urgently  and  was  con- 


472  The  Bars  of  Iron 

templating  addressing  a  protest  to  the  Reverend  Stephen  in 
person  when  another  agitated  epistle  arrived  from  Mrs. 
Lorimer.  Her  husband  had  decided  to  run  down  to  them 
for  a  night  and  judge  of  Jeanie's  state  for  himself. 

Avery  received  the  news  with  dismay  which,  however, 
she  was  careful  to  conceal.  Jeanie  heard  of  the  impending 
visit  with  as  much  perturbation  as  her  tranquil  nature 
would  allow,  and  during  the  day  that  intervened  before  his 
arrival  gave  herself  more  sedulously  than  ever  to  her  task. 
She  had  an  unhappy  premonition  that  he  would  desire  to 
examine  her  upon  what  she  had  read,  and  she  was  guiltily 
aware  that  her  memory  had  not  retained  very  much  of  it. 

So  for  the  whole  of  one  day  she  strove  to  study,  till  she 
was  so  completely  tired  out  that  Avery  actually  took  the 
book  from  her  at  last  and  declared  that  she  should  not 
worry  herself  any  more  about  it.  Jeanie  yielded  sub 
missively,  but  a  wakeful  night  followed,  and  in  the  morn 
ing  she  looked  so  wan  that  Avery  wanted  to  keep  her  in 
bed. 

On  this  point,  however,  Jeanie  was  less  docile  than  usual. 
"  He  will  think  I  am  shamming, "  she  protested.  "  He  never 
likes  us  to  lie  in  bed  unless  we  are  really  ill. " 

So,  since  she  was  evidently  anxious  to  get  up,  Avery 
permitted  it,  though  she  marked  her  obvious  languor  with 
a  sinking  heart. 

The  Vicar  arrived  at  about  noon,  and  Avery  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he  was  in  no  kindly  mood. 

"Dear  me,  what  is  all  this  fuss?"  he  said  to  Jeanie. 
"You  look  to  me  considerably  rosier  than  I  have  seen  you 
for  a  long  time. " 

Jeanie  was  indeed  flushed  with  nervous  excitement,  and 
Avery  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  eyes  so  unnaturally 
bright.  She  endured  her  father's  hand  under  her  chin  with 
evident  discomfort,  and  the  Vicar's  face  was  somewhat 
severe  when  he  finally  released  her. 


The  Tide  Comes  Back  473 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  getting  a  little  fanciful,  my  child, " 
he  said  gravely.  "I  know  that  our  kind  friend,  Lady 
Evesham — "  his  eyes  twinkled  ironically  and  seemed 
to  slip  inwards — "has  always  been  inclined  to  indulge  your 
whims.  Now  how  do  you  occupy  your  time?" 

"I  read,"  faltered  Jeanie. 

"And  sew,  I  presume,"  said  the  Vicar,  who  prided 
himself  upon  bringing  up  his  daughter  to  be  useful. 

"A  little,"  said  Jeanie. 

He  opened  his  eyes  upon  her  again  with  that  suggestion 
of  severity  in  his  regard  which  Jeanie  so  plainly  dreaded. 
"But  you  have  done  none  since  you  have  been  here? 
Jeanie,  my  child,  I  detect  in  you  the  seeds  of  idleness.  If 
your  time  were  more  fully  occupied,  you  would  find  your 
general  health  would  considerably  improve.  Now,  do  you 
rise  early  and  go  for  a  bathe  before  breakfast?" 

"  No, "  said  Jeanie,  with  a  little  shiver. 

He  shook  his  head  at  her.  "Then  let  us  institute  the 
habit  at  once!  I  cannot  have  you  becoming  slack  just 
because  you  are  away  from  home.  If  this  indolence  con 
tinue,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  have  you  back  under  my  own 
eye.  I  clearly  see  that  the  self-indulgent  life  you  lead  here 
is  having  disastrous  results.  You  will  bathe  with  me 
to-morrow  at  seven-thirty,  after  which  we  will  have  half  an 
hour  of  physical  exercise.  Then  after  a  wholesome  break 
fast  you  will  feel  renewed  and  ready  for  the  day's  work." 

Avery,  when  this  programme  was  laid  before  her,  looked 
at  him  in  incredulous  amazement. 

"But  surely  Dr.  Wyndham  explained  to  you  the  serious 
condition  she  is  in!"  she  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Lorimer  smiled  his  own  superior  smile.  "He 
explained  his  point  of  view  most  thoroughly,  my  dear  Lady 
Evesham."  He  always  pronounced  her  name  and  title 
with  satirical  emphasis.  "But  that — very  curious  as  it  may 
appear  to  you — does  not  prevent  my  holding  a  very  strong 


474  The  Bars  of  Iron 

opinion  of  my  own.  And  it  chances  to  be  in  direct  opposi 
tion  to  that  expressed  by  Dr.  Maxwell  Wyndham.  I  know 
my  own  child, — her  faults  and  her  tendencies.  She  has 
been  allowed  to  become  extremely  lax  with  regard  to  her 
daily  duties,  and  this  laxness  is  in  my  opinion  the  root  of 
t  he  evil.  I  shall  therefore  take  my  own  measures  to  correct 
it,  and  if  they  are  in  any  way  resisted  or  neglected  I  shall  at 
once  remove  the  child  from  your  care.  I  trust  I  have  made 
myself  quite  explicit. " 

He  had.  But  Avery's  indignation  could  not  be 
contained. 

"You  will  kill  her  if  you  persist!"  she  said.  "Even  as  it 
is — even  as  it  is — her  days  are  numbered. " 

"The  days  of  all  of  us  are  numbered,  "  said  the  Reverend 
Stephen.  "And  it  behoves  us  to  make  the  very  utmost 
of  each  one  of  them.  I  cannot  allow  my  child's  character 
to  be  ruined  on  account  of  a  physical  weakness  which  a 
little  judicious  discipline  will  speedily  overcome.  The 
spirit  must  triumph  over  the  flesh,  Lady  Evesham.  A 
hard  rule  for  worldlings,  I  grant  you,  but  one  which  must  be 
observed  by  all  who  would  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. " 

Argument  was  futile.  A  very 'realized  it  at  the  outset.  He 
would  have  his  way,  whatever  the  cost,  and  no  warning  or 
entreaty  would  move  him.  For  the  rest  of  that  day  she  had 
to  stand  by  in  impotent  anguish,  and  watch  Jeanie's  martyr 
dom.  During  the  afternoon  he  sat  alone  with  her,  conduct 
ing  the  intellectual  examination  which  Jeanie  had  so  dreaded, 
reprimanding,  criticizing,  scoffing  at  her  ignorance.  In 
the  evening  he  took  her  for  what  he  called  a  stroll  upon 
which  Avery  was  not  allowed  to  accompany  them.  Mr. 
Lorimer  playfully  remarking  that  he  wished  to  give  his 
young  daughter  the  benefit  of  his  individual  attention 
during  the  period  of  his  brief  sojourn  with  them. 

They  returned  from  their  expedition  at  eight.  Avery 
was  walking  to  and  fro  by  the  gate  in  a  ferment  of  anxiety. 


The  Tide  Comes  Back  475 

They  came  by  the  cliff-road,  and  she  went  eagerly  to  meet 
them. 

Jeanie  was  hanging  on  her  father's  arm  with  a  face  of 
deathly  whiteness,  and  looked  on  the  verge  of  collapse. 
•  The  Reverend  Stephen  was  serenely  satisfied  with  himself, 
laughed  gently  at  his  child's  dragging  progress,  and  assured 
Avery  that  a  little  wholesome  fatigue  was  a  good  thing  at  the 
end  of  the  day. 

Jeanie  said  nothing.  She  seemed  to  be  speechless  with 
exhaustion,  almost  incapable  of  standing  alone. 

Mr.  Lorimer  recommended  a  cold  bath,  a  brisk  rub-down, 
and  supper. 

"After  which,"  he  said  impressively,  "I  shall  hope  to 
conduct  a  few  prayers  before  we  retire  to  rest. " 

"That  will  be  impossible,  I  am  afraid,"  Avery  rejoined. 
"Jeanie  is  overtired  and  must  go  at  once  to  bed. " 

She  spoke  with  quiet  decision,  but  inwardly  she  was 
quivering  with  fierce  anger.  She  longed  passionately  to 
have  the  child  to  herself,  to  comfort  and  care  for  her  and 
ease  away  the  troubles  of  the  day. 

But  Mr.  Lorimer  at  once  asserted  his  authority.  "Jeanie 
will  certainly  join  us  at  supper, "  he  said.  "Run  along,  my 
child,  and  prepare  for  the  meal  at  once!" 

Jeanie  went  up  the  stairs  like  an  old  woman,  stumbling  at 
every  step. 

Avery  followed  her,  chafing  but  impotent. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  Jeanie  began  to  cough.  She 
turned  into  her  own  room  with  blind,  staggering  movements 
and  sank  down  beside  the  bed. 

The  coughing  was  spasmodic  and  convulsive.  It  shook 
her  whole  frame.  In  the  end  there  came  a  dreadful  tearing 
sound,  and  she  caught  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 

Avery  knelt  beside  her,  supporting  her.  She  saw  the 
white  linen  turn  suddenly  scarlet,  and  she  called  sharply 
to  Mr.  Lorimer  to  come  to  them. 


476  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  came,  and  between  them  they  got  her  on  to  the  bed. 

"This  is  most  unfortunate,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer.  "Pray 
how  did  it  happen?" 

And  then  Avery's  pent  fury  blazed  suddenly  forth  upon 
him.  " It  is  your  doing!"  she  said.  "You — and  you  alone 
— are  responsible  for  this!" 

He  looked  at  her  malignantly.  "Pshaw,  my  dear  Lady 
Evesham!  You  are  hysterical!"  he  said. 

Avery  was  bending  over  the  bed.  " Go!"  she  said,  with 
out  looking  up.  "  Go  quickly,  and  fetch  a  doctor!" 

And,  very  curiously,  Mr.  Lorimer  obeyed  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GAME 

JEANIE  rallied.     As  though  to  comfort  Avery's  distress, 
she  came  back  for  a  little  space ;  but  no  one — not  even 
her  father — could  doubt  any  longer  that  the  poor  little 
mortal  life  nad  nearly  run  out. 

"My  intervention  has  come  too  late,  alas!"  said  Mr. 
Lorimer. 

Which  remark  was  received  by  Avery  in  bitter  silence. 

She  had  no  further  fear  of  being  deprived  of  the  child. 
It  was  quite  out  of  the  question  to  think  of  moving  her,  and 
she  knew  that  Jeanie  was  hers  for  as  long  as  the  frail  cord 
of  her  earthly  existence  lasted. 

She  was  thankful  that  the  advent  of  a  nurse  made  it 
impossible  for  the  Vicar  to  remain,  and  she  parted  from 
him  with  almost  open  relief. 

"We  must  bow  to  the  Supreme  Will,"  he  said,  with  his 
heavy  sigh. 

And  again  Avery  was  silent. 

"I  fear  you  are  rebellious, "  he  said  with  severity. 

"Good-bye!"  said  Avery. 

Her  heart  bled  more  for  Mrs.  Lorimer  than  for  herself 
just  then.  She  knew  by  instinct  that  she  would  not  be 
allowed  to  come  to  her  child. 

The  nurse  was  middle-aged  and  kindly,  and  both  she 
and  Jeanie  liked  her  from  the  outset.  She  took  the 
night  duty,  and  the  day  was  Avery's,  a  division  that  pleased 
them  all. 

477 


478  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Mr.  Lorimer  had  demurred  about  having  a  nurse  at  all, 
but  Avery  had  swept  the  objection  aside.  Jeanie  was  in  her 
care,  and  she  would  provide  all  she  needed.  Mr.  Lorimer 
had  conceded  the  point  as  gracefully  as  possible,  for  it 
seemed  that  for  once  his  will  could  not  be  regarded  as  para 
mount.  Of  course,  as  he  openly  reflected,  Lady  Evesham 
was  very  much  in  their  debt,  and  it  was  but  natural  that 
she  should  welcome  this  opportunity  to  repay  somewhat 
of  their  past  kindness  to  her. 

So,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  little  Jeanie  was  sur 
rounded  with  all  that  she  could  desire;  and  very  slowly, 
like  a  broken  flower  coaxed  back  to  life,  she  revived  again. 

It  could  scarcely  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  an  improve 
ment.  It  was  just  a  fluctuation  that  deceived  neither 
Avery  nor  the  nurse;  but  to  the  former  those  days  were 
infinitely  precious.  She  clung  to  them  hour  by  hour,  refus 
ing  to  look  ahead  to  the  desolation  that  was  surely  coming, 
cherishing  her  darling  with  a  passion  of  devotion  that 
excluded  all  other  griefs. 

The  long  summer  days  slipped  away.  June  passed  like  a 
dream.  Jeanie  lay  in  the  tiny  garden  with  her  face  to  the 
sea,  gazing  forth  with  eyes  that  were  often  heavy  and  wist 
ful  but  always  ready  to  smile  upon  Avery.  The  holiday- 
task  was  put  away,  not  because  Mr.  Lorimer  had  remitted 
it,  but  because  Avery — with  rare  despotism — had  insisted 
upon  removing  it  from  her  patient's  reach. 

"Not  till  you  are  better,  darling,"  she  said.  "That  is 
your  biggest  duty  now,  just  to  get  back  all  the  strength  you 
can." 

And  Jeanie  had  smiled  her  wistful,  dreamy  smile,  and 
submitted. 

Avery  sometimes  wondered  if  she  knew  of  the  great 
Change  that  was  drawing  so  rapidly  near.  If  so,  it  had  no 
terrors  for  her;  and  she  thanked  God  that  the  Vicar  was  not 
at  hand  to  terrify  the  child.  The  journey  from  Rodding  to 


The  Game  479 

Stanbury  Cliffs  was  not  an  easy  one  by  rail,  and  parish 
matters  were  fortunately  claiming  his  attention  very  fully 
just  then.  As  he  himself  had  remarked  more  than  once,  he 
was  not  the  man  to  permit  mere  personal  matters  to  inter 
fere  with  Duty,  and  many  a  weak  soul  depended  upon  his 
ministrations. 

So  Jeanie  was  left  entirely  to  Avery's  motherly  care 
while  the  golden  days  slipped  by. 

With  July  came  heat,  intense,  oppressive,  airless;  and 
Jeanie  flagged  again.  A  copper-coloured  mist  rose  every 
morning  over  the  sea,  blotting  out  the  sky-line,  veiling  the 
passing  ships.  Strange  voices  called  through  the  fog, 
sirens  hooted  to  one  another  persistently. 

"They  are  like  people  who  have  lost  each  other,"  Jeanie 
said  once,  and  the  simile  haunted  Avery's  imagination. 

And  then  one  sunny  day  a  pleasure-steamer  passed 
quite  near  the  shore  with  a  band  on  board.  They  were 
playing  The  Little  Grey  Home  in  the  West,  and  very  oddly 
Jeanie's  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears. 

Avery  did  not  take  any  notice  for  a  few  moments,  but 
as  the  strains  died  away  over  the  glassy  water,  she  leaned 
towards  the  child. 

"My    darling,    what    is    it?"    she    whispered    tenderly. 

Jeanie's  hand  found  its  way  into  hers.  "Oh,  don't  you 
ever  want  Piers?"  she  murmured  wistfully.  "I  do!" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  his  name  to  Avery 
since  they  had  left  him  alone  nearly  a  year  before,  and 
almost  as  soon  as  she  had  uttered  it  she  made  swift 
apology. 

"Please  forgive  me,  dear  Avery!     It  just  slipped  out." 

"My  dear.1"  Avery  said,  and  kissed  her. 

There  fell  a  long  silence  between  them.  Avery's  eyes 
were  on  the  thick  heat-haze  that  obscured  the  sky-line.  In 
her  brain  there  sounded  again  those  words  that  Maxwell 
Wyndham  had  spoken  so  short  a  time  before.  "Give 


480  The  Bars  of  Iron 

her  everything  she  wants!  It's  all  you  can  do  for  her 
now." 

But  behind  those  words  was  something  that  shrank  and 
quivered  like  a  frightened  child.  Could  she  give  her  this 
one  thing?  Could  she?  Could  she? 

It  would  mean  the  tearing  open  of  a  wound  that  was 
scarcely  closed.  It  would  mean  a  calling  to  life  of  a  bitter 
ness  that  was  hardly  past.  It  would  mean — it  would 
mean 

"Avery  darling!"  Softly  Jeanie's  voice  broke  through 
her  agitated  thoughts. 

Avery  turned  and  looked  at  her, — the  frail,  sweet  face 
with  its  shining  eyes  of  love. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you, "  whispered  Jeanie.  " Don't 
think  any  more  about  it!" 

"Do  you  want  him  so  dreadfully?"  Avery  said. 

Jeanie's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  again.  She  tried  to 
answer,  but  her  lips  quivered.  She  turned  her  face  aside, 
and  was  silent. 

The  day  waxed  hotter,  became  almost  insupportable. 
In  the  afternoon  Jeanie  was  attacked  by  breathlessness  and 
coughing,  both  painful  to  witness.  She  could  find  no  rest 
or  comfort,  and  Avery  was  in  momentary  dread  of  a  return 
of  the  hemorrhage. 

It  did  not  return,  but  when  evening  came  at  length  and 
with  it  the  blessed  coolness  of  approaching  night,  Jeanie  was 
so  exhausted  as  to  be  unable  to  speak  above  a  whisper.  She 
lay  white  and  still,  scarcely  conscious,  only  her  difficult 
breathing  testifying  to  the  fluttering  life  that  had  ebbed  so 
low. 

The  nurse's  face  was  very  grave  as  she  came  on  duty, 
but  after  an  interval  of  steady  watching,  during  which  the 
wind  blew  in  with  rising  freshness  from  the  sea,  she  turned 
to  Avery,  saying,  "I  think  she  will  revive." 

Avery  nodded  and  slipped  away. 


The  Game  481 

There  was  not  much  time  left.  She  ran  all  the  way  to 
the  post-office  and  scribbled  a  message  there  with  trembling 
fingers. 

"Jeanie  wants  you.     Will  you  come?     A  very. " 

She  sent  the  message  to  Rodding  Abbey.  She  knew 
they  would  forward  it  from  there. 

Passing  out  again  into  the  road,  a  sudden  sense  of  sick 
ness  swept  over  her.  What  had  she  done  ?  What  uncon 
trolled  force  would  that  telegram  unfetter?  Would  he 
come  to  her  like  a  whirlwind  and  sweep  her  back  into  his  own 
tempestuous  life?  Would  he  break  her  will  once  more  to 
his  ?  Would  he  drag  her  once  more  through  the  hell  of  his 
passion,  kindle  afresh  for  her  the  flame  that  had  consumed 
her  happiness? 

She  dared  not  face  the  possibility.  She  felt  as  if  an  iron 
hand  had  closed  upon  her,  drawing  her  surely,  irresistibly, 
back  towards  those  gates  of  brass  through  which  she  had 
escaped  into  the  desert.  That  fiery  torture  would  be  in 
finitely  harder  to  bear  now,  and  she  knew  that  the  fieriest 
point  of  it  all  would  be  the  desperate,  aching  longing  to 
know  again  the  love  that  had  shone  and  burnt  itself  out  in 
the  blast-furnace  of  his  sin.  He  had  loved  her  once;  she 
was  sure  he  had  loved  her.  But  that  love  had  died  with  his 
boyhood,  and  it  could  never  rise  again.  He  had  trodden 
it  underfoot  and  her  own  throbbing  heart  with  it.  He 
had  destroyed  that  which  she  had  always  believed  to  be 
indestructible. 

She  never  wanted  to  see  him  again.  She  would  have 
given  all  she  had  to  have  avoided  the  meeting.  Her  whole 
being  recoiled  from  the  thought  of  it.  And  yet — and  yet — 
she  saw  again  the  black  head  laid  against  her  knee,  and 
heard  the  low,  half-rueful  words:  "Oh,  my  dear,  there  is  no 
other  woman  but  you  in  all  the  world!" 

The  vision  went  with  her  all  through  the  night.  She 
could  not  escape  it. 


482  The  Bars  of  Iron 

In  the  morning  she  rose  with  a  sense  of  being  haunted, 
and  a  terrible  weariness  that  hung  upon  her  like  a  chain. 

The  day  was  cooler.  Jeanie  was  better.  She  had  had  a 
nice  sleep,  the  nurse  said.  But  there  could  be  no  question 
of  allowing  her  to  leave  her  bed  that  day. 

"You  are  looking  so  tired,"  the  nurse  said,  in  her  kind 
way  to  A  very.  "  I  am  not  wanting  to  go  off  duty  till  this 
afternoon.  So  won't  you  go  and  sit  down  somewhere  on 
the  rocks  ?  Please  do ! " 

She  was  so  anxious  to  gain  her  point  that  Avery  yielded. 
She  felt  too  feverishly  restless  to  be  a  suitable  companion 
for  Jeanie  just  then.  She  went  down  to  her  favourite  corner 
to  watch  the  tide  come  in.  But  she  could  not  be  still.  She 
paced  the  shore  like  a  caged  creature  seeking  a  way  of 
escape,  dreading  each  turn  lest  it  should  bring  her  face  to 
face  with  the  man  she  had  summoned. 

The  tide  came  in  and  drove  her  up  the  beach.  She 
went  back  not  unwillingly,  for  the  suspense  had  become 
insupportable. 

Had  he  come?  But  surely  not!  .  She  was  convinced  he 
would  have  followed  her  to  the  shore  if  he  had. 

She  entered  the  tiny  hall.  It  was  square,  and  served 
them  as  a  sitting-room.  Coming  in  from  the  glare  without, 
she  was  momentarily  dazzled.  And  then  all  suddenly  her 
eyes  lighted  upon  an  unaccustomed  object,  and  her  heart 
ceased  to  beat.  A  man's  tweed  cap  lay  carelessly  tossed 
upon  the  back  of  a  chair! 

She  stood  quite  still,  feeling  her  senses  reel,  knowing 
herself  to  be  on  the  verge  of  fainting,  and  clinging  with  all 
her  strength  to  her  tottering  self-control. 

Gradually  she  recovered,  felt  her  heart  begin  to  beat 
again  and  the  deadly  faintness  pass.  There  was  a  telegram 
on  the  table.  She  took  it  up,  found  it  addressed  to  herself, 
opened  it  with  fumbling  fingers. 

"Tell  Jeanie  I  am  coming  to-day.     Piers." 


The  Game  483 

It  had  arrived  an  hour  before,  and  she  was  conscious  of 
a  vague  sense  of  thankfulness  that  she  had  been  spared  that 
hour  of  awful  certainty. 

A  door  opened  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  A  voice  spoke. 
"I'll  come  back,  my  queen.  But  I've  got  to  pay  my  re 
spects,  you  know,  to  the  mistress  of  the  establishment,  or 
she'll  be  cross.  Do  you  remember  the  Avery  symphony? 
We'll  have  it  presently. " 

A  light  step  followed  the  voice.  Already  he  was  on  the 
stairs.  He  came  bounding  down  to  her  like  an  eager  boy. 
For  one  wild  moment  she  thought  he  was  going  to  throw  his 
arms  about  her.  But  he  stopped  himself  before  he  reached 
her. 

"I  say,  how  ill  you  look!"  he  said. 

That  was  all  the  greeting  he  uttered,  and  in  the  same 
moment  she  saw  that  the  black  hair  above  his  forehead  was 
powdered  with  white.  It  sent  such  a  shock  through  her  as 
no  word  or  action  of  his  could  have  caused. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  him  in  stiff  inaction. 
Then,  still  stiffly,  she  held  out  her  hand.  But  she  could  not 
utter  a  word.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to  burst  into 
tears. 

He  took  the  hand.  His  dark  eyes  interrogated  her,  but 
they  told  her  nothing.  "It's  all  right,"  he  said  rapidly. 
"I'm  Jeanie's  visitor.  I  shan't  forget  it.  It  was  decent 
of  you  to  send.  I  say,  you — you  are  not  really  ill,  what?" 

No,  she  was  not  ill.  She  heard  herself  telling  him  so  in 
a  voice  she  did  not  know.  And  all  the  while  she  felt  as  if  her 
heart  were  bleeding,  bleeding  to  death. 

He  let  her  hand  go,  and  straightened  himself  with  the 
old  free  arrogance  of  movement.  "May  I  have  some 
thing  to  eat?"  he  said.  "Your  message  only  got  to  me  this 
morning.  I  was  at  breakfast,  and  I  had  to  leave  it  to  catch 
the  train.  So  I've  had  practically  nothing." 

That  moved  her  to  activity.     She  led  the  way  into  the 


484  The  Bars  of  Iron 

little  parlour  where  luncheon  had  been  laid.  He  sat  down 
at  the  table,  and  she  waited  upon  him,  almost  in  silence. 
yet  no  longer  with  embarrassment. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  join  me?"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  also,  and  took  a  minute  helping  of  cold 
chicken. 

"I  say,  you're  not  going  to  eat  all  that!"  ejaculated 
Piers. 

She  had  to  laugh  a  little,  though  still  with  that  horrified 
sense  of  tragedy  at  her  heart. 

He  laughed  too  his  careless  boyish  laugh,  and  in  a  moment 
all  the  electricity  of  the  past  few  moments  had  gone  out 
of  the  atmosphere.  He  leaned  forward  unexpectedly  and 
transferred  a  wing  of  chicken  from  his  plate  to  hers. 

"Look  here,  Avery!  You  must  eat.  It's  absurd.  So 
fire  away  like  a  sensible  woman!" 

There  was  no  tenderness  in  his  tone,  but,  oddly,  she 
thrilled  to  its  imperiousness,  conscious  of  the  old  magnetism 
compelling  her.  She  began  to  eat  in  silence. 

Piers  ate  too  in  his  usual  quick  fashion,  glancing  at 
her  once  or  twice  but  making  no  further  comment. 

"Tell  me  about  Jeanie!"  he  said,  finally.  "What  has 
brought  her  "to  this?  Can't  we  do  anything — take  her  to 
Switzerland  or  somewhere?" 

Avery  shook  her  head.  "Can't  you  see?"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

He  frowned  upon  her  abruptly.  "I  see  lots,"  he  said 
enigmatically.  "It's  quite  hopeless,  what?  Wyndham  told 
me  as  much.  But — I  don't  believe  in  hopeless  things. " 

Avery  looked  at  him,  mystified  by  his  tone.  "She  is 
dying,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  believe  in  death  either,"  said  Piers,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  challenged  the  world.     "And  now  look  here 
Avery!     Let's  make  the  best  of  things  for  the  kiddie's  sake! 
She's  had  a  rotten  time  all  her  days.     Let's  give  her  a  decent 


The  Game  485 

send-off,  what?  Let's  give  her  the  time  of  her  life  before 
she  goes!" 

He  got  up  suddenly  from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  open 
window. 

Avery  turned  her  head  to  watch  him,  but  for  some  reason 
she  could  not  speak. 

He  went  on  vehemently,  his  face  turned  from  her.  "In 
Heaven's  name  don't  let's  be  sorry!  It's  such  a  big  thing 
to  go  out  happy.  Let's  play  the  game!  I  know  you 
can;  you  were  always  plucky.  Let's  give  her  everything 
she  wants  and  some  over!  What,  Avery,  what?  I'm  not 
asking  for  myself. " 

She  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  was  asking,  but  she  did 
not  dare  to  tell  him  so.  She  sat  quite  silent,  feeling  her 
keart  quicken,  striving  desperately  to  be  calm. 

He  flung  round  suddenly,  and  came  to  her.  "Will  you 
do  it?"  he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.     She  was  white  to  the  lips. 

He  made  one  of  his  quick,  half-foreign  gestures.  "Don't!" 
he  said  harshly.  "  You  make  me  feel  such  a  brute.  Can't 
you  trust  me — can't  you  pretend  to  trust  me — for  Jeanie's 
sake?"  His  hand  closed  fiercely  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 
He  bent  towards  her.  "  It's  only  a  hollow  bargain.  You'll 
hate  it  of  course.  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  enjoy  it  any 
better?  Do  you  suppose  I  would  ask  it  of  you  for  any  reason 
but  this?" 

Something  in  his  face  or  voice  pierced  her.  She  felt 
again  that  dreadful  pain  at  her  heart,  as  if  the  blood 
were  draining  from  it  with  every  beat. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Piers, "  she  said  at  last. 

He  bit  his  lip  in  sheer  impatience,  but  the  next  moment  he 
controlled  himself.  "I'm  asking  a  difficult  thing  of  you," 
he  said,  forcing  his  voice  to  a  quiet  level.  "It  isn't  par 
ticularly  easy  for  me  either;  perhaps  in  a  sense,  it's  even 
harder.  But  you  must  have  known  when  you  sent  for  me 


486  The  Bars  of  Iron 

that  something  of  the  kind  was  inevitable.  What  you 
didn't  know — possibly — was  that  Jeanie  is  grieving  badly 
over  our  estrangement.  She  wants  to  draw  us  together 
again.  Will  you  suffer  it?  Will  you  play  the  game  with 
me?  It  won't  be  for  long. " 

His  eyes  looked  straight  into  hers,  but  they  held  only  a 
great  darkness  in  which  no  flicker  of  light  burned.  Avery 
felt  as  if  the  gulf  between  them  had  widened  to  a  measure 
less  abyss.  Once  she  could  have  read  him  like  an  open 
book;  but  now  she  had  not  the  vaguest  clue  to  his  feelings 
or  his  motives.  He  had  as  it  were  withdrawn  beyond  her 
ken. 

"  Is  it  to  be  only  make-believe? "  she  asked  at  last. 

"Just  that,"  he  said,  but  she  thought  his  voice  rang 
hard  as  he  said  it. 

An  odd  little  tremor  went  through  her.  She  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  throat.  "  Piers,  I  don't  know — I  am  afraid 
— ' '  She  broke  off  in  agitation. 

He  leaned  towards  her.  "Don't  be  afraid!"  he  said. 
"There  is  nothing  so  damning  as  fear.  Shall  we  go  up  to 
her  now?  I  promised  I  wouldn't  be  long. " 

She  rose.  He  was  still  standing  close  to  her,  so  close  that 
she  felt  the  warmth  of  his  body,  heard  the  sharp  indrawing 
of  his  breath. 

For  one  sick  second  she  thought  he  would  snatch  her  to 
him;  but  the  second  passed  and  he  had  not  moved. 

"Shall  we  go?"  he  said  again.  "And  I  say,  can  you  put 
me  up  ?  I  don't  care  where  I  sleep.  Any  sort  of  shakedown 
will  do.  That  sofa — "  he  glanced  towards  the  one  by  the 
window  upon  which  Jeanie  had  been  wont  to  lie. 

"  If  you  like, "  Avery  said. 

She  felt  that  the  power  to  refuse  him  had  left  her.  He 
would  do  as  he  thought  fit. 

They  went  upstairs  together,  and  she  saw  Jeanie's  face 
light  up  as  they  entered.  Piers  was  behind.  Coming 


The  Game  487 

forward,  he  slipped  a  confident  hand  through  Avery's  arm. 
She  felt  his  fingers  close  upon  her  warningly,  checking  her 
slight  start;  and  she  knew  with  an  odd  mixture  of  relief 
and  dismay  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  game.  She 
forced  herself  to  smile  in  answer,  and  she  knew  that  she 
succeeded ;  but  it  was  one  of  the  greatest  efforts  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   KINGDOM   OF   HEAVEN 

FOR  a  week  after  Piers'  arrival,  Jeanie  was  better,  so 
much  better  that  she  was  able  to  be  carried  down 
stairs  and  into  the  garden  where  she  loved  to  lie.  There  was 
a  piano  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Piers  would  sit  at  it  by  the 
hour  together,  playing  anything  she  desired.  She  loved  his 
music,  would  listen  entranced  for  any  length  of  time  while 
he  led  her  through  a  world  of  delight  that  she  had  never 
explored  before.  It  soothed  her  restlessness,  comforted 
her  in  weariness,  made  her  forget  her  pain. 

And  then  the  summer  weather  broke.  There  came  a 
spell  of  rainy  days  that  made  the  garden  impossible,  and 
immediately  Jeanie's  strength  began  to  wane.  It  went 
from  her  very  gradually.  She  suffered  but  little,  save 
when  her  breathing  or  her  cough  troubled  her.  But  it  was 
evident  to  them  all  that  her  little  craft  was  putting  out  to 
sea  at  last. 

Piers  went  steadfastly  on  with  the  role  he  had  assigned  to 
himself.  He  never  by  word  or  look  reminded  Avery  of  the 
compact  between  them.  He  merely  took  her  support  for 
granted,  and — probably  in  consequence  of  this — it  never 
failed  him. 

The  nurse  declared  him  to  be  invaluable.  He  always  had 
a  salutary  effect  upon  her  patient.  For  even  more  than  at 
the  sight  of  Avery  did  Jeanie  brighten  at  his  coming,  and 
she  was  always  happy  alone  with  him.  It  even  occurred  to 

488 


The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  489 

Avery  sometimes  that  her  presence  was  scarcely  needed, 
so  completely  were  they  at  one  in  understanding  and 
sympathy. 

One  evening,  entering  the  room  unexpectedly,  she  found 
Piers  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  He  rose  instantly  and 
made  way  for  her  in  a  fashion  she  could  not  ignore;  but, 
though  Jeanie  greeted  her  with  evident  pleasure,  it  was 
obvious  that  for  the  moment  she  was  not  needed,  and  an  odd 
little  pang  went  through  her  with  the  knowledge. 

Piers  left  the  room  almost  immediately,  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  heard  him  at  the  piano  downstairs. 

"May  I  have  the  door  open?"  whispered  Jeanie. 

Avery  opened  it,  and  drawing  up  a  chair  sat  down  with 
her  work  at  the  bedside. 

And  then,  slowly  rolling  forth,  there  came  that  wonderful 
music  with  which  he  had  thrilled  her  soul  at  the  very 
beginning  of  his  courtship. 

Wordless,  magnificent,  the  great  anthem  swelled  through 
the  falling  dusk,  and  like  a  vision  the  unutterable  arose  and 
possessed  her  soul.  Her  eyes  began  to  behold  the  Land 
that  is  very  far  off. 

And  then,  throbbing  through  the  wonder  of  that  vision, 
she  heard  the  coming  of  the  vast  procession.  It  was  like  a 
dream,  and  yet  it  was  wholly  real.  As  yet  lost  in  distance, 
veiled  in  mystery,  she  heard  the  tread  of  the  coming  host. 

Her  hands  were  fast  gripped  together ;  she  forgot  all  beside. 
It  was  as  if  the  eyes  of  her  soul  had  been  opened,  and 
she  looked  upon  the  Infinite.  A  voice  at  her  side  began  to 
speak,  or  was  it  the  voice  of  her  own  heart  ?  It  was  only  a 
whisper,  but  every  word  of  it  pierced  her  consciousness. 
She  listened  with  parted  lips. 

"  I  saw  Heaven  opened,  and  behold  a  white  horse;  and  He 
that  sat  upon  him  was  called  Faithful  and  True. .  .  His  Eyes 
were  as  a  flame  of  fire  and  on  His  Head  were  many  crowns. 
,  .  .  And  He  was  clothed  with  a  vesture  dipped  in  blood.  .  .  . 


4-90  The  Bars  of  Iron 

And  the  armies  which  were  in  Heaven  followed  Him  upon 
white  horses,  clothed  in  fine  linen,  white  and  clean.  .  .  . 
And  He  treadeth  the  wine-press.  .  .  .  He  treadeth  the 
wine-press.  ..." 

The  voice  paused.  Avery  was  listening  with  bated  breath 
for  more.  But  it  did  not  come  at  once.  Only  the  Veil 
began  to  lift,  so  that  she  saw  the  Opening  Gates  and  the 
Glory  behind  them. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  dream-voice  spoke  again. 
"Surely — surely  He  hath  borne  our  griefs,  and  carried — our 
sorrows.  .  .  .  And  the  Lord  hath  laid  on  Him — the  iniquity 
of  us  all. "  The  music  crashed  into  wonder-chords  such  as 
Avery  had  never  heard  before,  swelled  to  a  climax  that 
reached  the  Divine,  held  her  quivering  as  it  were  upon  wings 
in  a  space  that  was  more  transcendent  than  the  highest 
mountain-top; — then  softly,  strangely,  died.  .  .  . 

"That  is  Heaven,"  whispered  the  voice  by  her  side. 
"Oh,  Avery,  won't  it  be  nice  when  we  are  all  there 
together?" 

But  Avery  sat  as  one  in  a  trance,  rapt  and  still.  She  felt 
as  if  the  spirit  had  been  charmed  out  of  her  body,  and  she 
did  not  want  to  return. 

A  little  thin  hand  slid  into  hers  and  clasped  it  close, 
recalling  her.  "Wasn't  it  beautiful?"  said  Jeanie.  "He 
said  he  would  make  me  see  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  You 
saw  it  too,  dear  Avery,  didn't  you?" 

Yes,  Avery  had  seen  it  too.  She  still  felt  as  if  the  earth 
were  very  far  below  them  both. 

Jeanie's  voice  had  grown  husky,  but  she  still  spoke  in  a 
tremulous  whisper.  "Did  you  see  the  Open  Gates,  dear 
Avery?  He  says  they  are  never  shut.  And  anyone  who 
can  reach  them  will  be  let  in, — it  doesn't  matter  who.  Do 
you  know,  I  think  Piers  is  different  from  what  he  used  to 
be?  I  think  he  is  learning  to  love  God. " 

Absolutely    simple    words!     Why  did    they   send    such 


The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  491 

a  rush  of  feeling — tumultuous,  indescribable  feeling — • 
through  Avery  ?  Was  this  the  explanation  ?  Was  this  how 
it  came  to  pass  that  he  treated  her  with  that  aloof  reverence 
day  by  day?  Was  he  indeed  learning  the  supreme  lesson 
to  worship  God  with  love? 

She  sat  for  a  while  longer  with  Jeanie,  till,  rinding  her 
drowsy,  she  slipped  downstairs. 

Piers  was  sitting  in  the  hall,  deep  in  a  newspaper.  He 
rose  at  her  coming  with  an  abruptness  suggestive  of 
surprise,  and  stood  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

But  curiously  the  only  words  that  she  could  utter  were  of 
a  trivial  nature.  She  had  come  to  him  indeed,  drawn  by 
a  power  irresistible,  but  the  moment  she  found  herself 
actually  in  his  presence  she  felt  tongue-tied,  helpless. 

"Don't  you  want  a  light?"  she  said  nervously.  "I  am 
sure  you  can't  see  to  read. " 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  the  old  tormenting 
doubt  began  to  rise  within  her.  Would  he  think  she  desired 
to  make  an  overture?  Would  he  take  for  granted  that 
because  his  magnetism  had  drawn  her  he  could  do  with  her 
as  he  would? 

And  then  very  quietly  he  spoke,  and  she  experienced  an 
odd  revulsion  of  feeling  that  was  almost  disappointment. 

"Have  you  been  reading  the  papers  lately?" 

She  had  not.     Jeanie  occupied  all  her  waking  thoughts. 

He  glanced  down  at  the  sheet  he  held.  "There  is  going  to 
be  a  bust-up  on  the  Continent, "  he  said,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  tone — a  grim  elation — which  puzzled  her  at  the 
moment.  "The  mightiest  bust-up  the  world  has  ever 
known.  We're  in  for  it,  Avery;  in  for  the  very  deuce  of 
a  row."  His  voice  vibrated  suddenly.  He  stopped  as 
though  to  check  some  headlong  force  that  threatened  to 
carry  him  away. 

Avery  stood  still,  feeling  a  sick  horror  of  impending 
disaster  at  her  heart.  "What  can  you  mean?"  she  said. 


492  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  leaned  his  hands  upon  the  table  facing  her,  and  she 
saw  in  his  eyes  the  primitive,  savage  joy  of  battle.  "I 
mean  war,"  he  said.  "Oh,  it's  horrible;  yes,  of  course  it's 
horrible.  But  it'll  bring  us  to  our  senses.  It'll  make  men 
of  us  yet." 

She  shrank  from  his  look.  ' '  Piers !  Not — not  a  European 
war!" 

He  straightened  himself  slowly.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "It 
will  be  that.  But  there's  nothing  to  be  scared  about. 
It'll  be  the  salvation  of  the  Empire. " 

"Piers!"  she  gasped  again  through  white  lips.  "But 
modern  warfare!  Modern  weapons!  It's  Germany  of 
course?" 

"Yes,  Germany. "  He  stretched  up  his  arms  with  a  wide 
gesture  and  let  them  fall.  "Germany  who  is  going  to  cut 
out  all  the  rot  of  party  politics  and  bind  us  together  as  one 
man!  Germany  who  is  going  to  avert  civil  war  and  teach 
us  to  love  our  neighbours!  Nothing  short  of  this  would 
have  saved  us.  We've  been  a  mere  horde  of  chattering 
monkeys  lately.  Now — all  thanks  to  Germany! — we're 
going  to  be  men!" 

"Or  murderers!"  said  Avery. 

The  word  broke  from  her  involuntarily,  she  scarcely  knew 
that  she  had  uttered  it  until  she  saw  his  face.  Then  in  a 
flash  she  saw  what  she  had  done,  for  he  had  the  sudden 
tragic  look  of  a  man  who  has  received  his  death-wound. 

He  made  her  a  curious  stiff  bow  as  if  he  bent  himself  with 
difficulty.  His  face  at  that  moment  was  whiter  than  hers, 
but  his  eyes  glowed  red  with  a  deep  anger. 

" I  shall  remember  that, "  he  said,  "when  I  go  to  fight  for 
my  country." 

With  the  words  he  turned  to  the  door.  But  she  cried 
after  him,  dismayed,  incoherent. 

"Oh  Piers,  you  know — you  know — I  didn't  mean  that!" 

He  did  not  pause  or  look  back.     "Nevertheless  you  said 


The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  493 

it,"  he  rejoined  in  a  tone  that  made  her  feel  as  if  he  had 
flung  an  icy  shower  of  water  in  her  face;  and  the  next 
moment  she  heard  his  quick  tread  on  the  garden  path  and 
realized  that  he  was  gone. 

It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  follow  him.  Her  knees  were 
trembling  under  her.  Moreover,  she  knew  that  she  must 
return  to  Jeanie.  White-lipped,  quivering,  she  moved  to 
the  stairs. 

He  had  utterly  misunderstood  her ;  she  had  but  voiced  the 
horrified  thought  that  must  have  risen  in  the  minds  of 
thousands  when  first  brought  face  to  face  with  that  world 
wide  tragedy.  But  he  had  read  a  personal  meaning  into 
her  words.  He  had  deemed  her  deliberately  cruel,  ungener 
ous,  bitter.  That  he  could  thus  misunderstand  her  set  her 
heart  bleeding  afresh.  Oh,  they  were  better  apart !  How 
was  it  possible  that  there  could  ever  be  any  confidence,  any 
intimacy,  between  them  again? 

Tears,  scalding,  blinding  tears  ran  suddenly  down  her 
face.  She  bowed  her  head  in  her  hands,,  leaning  upon 
the  banisters.  .  .  . 

A  voice  called  to  her  from  above,  and  she  started.  What 
was  she  doing,  weeping  here  in  selfish  misery,  when  Jeanie — 
Swiftly  she  commanded  herself  and  mounted  the  stairs. 
The  nurse  met  her  at  the  top. 

"The  little  one  isn't  so  well, "  she  said.  " I  thought  she 
was  asleep,  but  I  am  afraid  she  is  unconscious. " 

"Oh,  nurse,  and  I  left  her!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  such  heart-break  in  Avery's  voice 
that  the  nurse's  grave  face  softened  in  sympathy. 

"My  dear,  you  couldn't  have  done  anything,"  she  said. 
"It  is  just  the  weakness  before  the  end,  and  we  can  do 
nothing  to  avert  it.  What  about  her  mother?  Can  she 
come?" 

Avery  shook  her  head  in  despair.     "Not  for  a  week." 

"  Ah ! "  the  nurse  said ;  and  that  was  all.     But  Avery  knew 


494  The  Bars  of  Iron 

in  that  moment  that  only  a  few  hours  more  remained  c;e 
little  Jeanie  Lorimer  passed  through  the  Open  Gates. 

She  would  not  go  to  bed  that  night  though  the  child  lay 
wholly  unconscious  of  her.  She  knew  that  she  could  not 
sleep. 

She  did  not  see  Piers  again  till  late.  The  nurse  slipped 
down  to  tell  him  of  Jeanie's  condition,  and  he  came  up, 
white  and  sternly  composed,  and  stood  for  many  minutes 
watching  the  slender,  quick-breathing  figure  that  lay 
propped  among  pillows,  close  to  the  open  window. 

Avery  could  not  look  at  his  face  during  those  minutes; 
she  dared  not.  But  when  he  turned  away  at  length  he  bent 
and  spoke  to  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  here?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade  her.  All  he  said  was, 
"May  I  wait  in  your  room?  I  shall  be  within  call  there." 

"Of  course,"  she  answered. 

"And  you  will  call  me  if  there  is  any  change?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said  again. 

He  nodded  briefly  and  left  her. 

Then  began  the  long,  long  night-watch.  It  was  raining, 
and  the  night  was  very  dark.  The  slow,  deep  roar  of  the 
sea  rose  solemnly  and  filled  the  quiet  room.  The  tide  was 
coming  in.  They  could  hear  the  water  shoaling  along  the 
beach. 

How  often  Avery  had  listened  to  it  and  loved  the  sound ! 
To-night  it  rilled  her  soul  with  awe,  as  the  Voice  of  Many 
Waters. 

Slowly  the  night  wore  on,  and  ever  that  sound  increased 
in  volume,  swelling,  intensifying,  like  the  coming  of  a  mighty 
host  as  yet  far  off.  The  rain  pattered  awhile  and  ceased. 
The  sea-breeze  blew  in,  salt  and  pure.  It  stirred  the  brown 
tendrils  of  hair  on  Jeanie's  forehead,  and  eddied  softly 
through  the  room. 


The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  495 

The  nurse  sat  working  beside  a  hooded  lamp  that  threw 
her  grave,  strong  face  into  high  relief,  but  only  accentuated 
the  shadows  in  the  rest  of  the  room.  Avery  sat  close  to  the 
bed,  not  praying,  scarcely  thinking,  waiting  only  for  the 
opening  of  the  Gates.  And  in  that  hour  she  longed, — oh, 
how  passionately! — that  when  they  opened  she  also  might 
be  permitted  to  pass  through. 

It  was  in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  night  that  the  tide 
began  to  turn.  She  looked  almost  instinctively  for  a  change 
but  none  came.  Jeanie  stirred  not,  save  when  the  nurse 
stooped  over  her  to  give  her  nourishment,  and  each  time  she 
took  less  and  less. 

The  tide  receded.  The  night  began  to  pass.  There  came 
a  faint  greyness  before  the  window.  The  breeze  freshened. 

And  very  suddenly  the  breathing  to  which  Avery  had 
listened  all  the  night  paused,  ceased  for  a  second  or  two, 
then  broke  into  the  sharp  sigh  of  one  awaking  from  sleep. 

She  rose  quickly,  and  the  nurse  looked  up.  Jeanie's  eyes 
dark,  unearthly,  unafraid,  were  opened  wide. 

She  gazed  at  Avery  for  a  moment  as  if  slightly  puzzled. 
Then,  in  a  faint  whisper:  "Has  Piers  said  good-night?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  darling.  But  he  is  waiting  to.  I  will  call  him," 
Avery  said. 

"Quickly!"  whispered  the  nurse,  as  she  passed  her. 

Swiftly,  noiselessly,  Avery  went  to  her  own  room.  But 
some  premonition  of  her  coming  must  have  reached  him; 
for  he  met  her  on  the  threshold. 

His  eyes  questioned  hers  for  a  moment,  and  then  together 
they  turned  back  to  Jeanie's  room.  No  words  passed 
between  them.  None  were  needed. 

Jeanie's  face  was  turned  towards  the  door.  Her  eyes 
looked  beyond  Avery  and  smiled  a  welcome  to  Piers.  He 
came  to  her,  knelt  beside  her. 

"Dear  Sir  Galahad!"  she  said. 


496  The  Bars  of  Iron 

He  shook  his  head.     "No,  Jeanie,  no!" 

She  was  panting.  He  slipped  his  arm  under  the  pillow 
to  support  her.  She  turned  her  face  to  his. 

"Oh,  Piers,"  she  breathed,  "I  do — so — want  you — to  be 
happy." 

"I  am  happy,  sweetheart,"  he  said. 

But  Jeanie's  vision  was  stronger  in  that  moment  than  it 
had  ever  been  before,  and  she  was  not  deceived.  "  You  are 
not  happy,  dear  Piers,"  she  said.  "Avery  is  not  happy 
either." 

Piers  turned  slightly.     "Come  here,  Avery!"  he  s'aid. 

The  old  imperious  note  was  in  his  voice,  yet  with  a  differ 
ence.  He  stretched  his  free  hand  up  to  her,  drawing  her 
down  to  his  side,  and  as  she  knelt  also  he  passed  his  arm 
about  her,  pressing  her  to  him. 

Jeanie's  eyes  were  upon  them  both,  dying  eyes  that  shone 
with  a  mystic  glory.  They  saw  the  steadfast  resolution 
in  Piers'  face  as  he  held  his  wife  against  his  heart.  They 
saw  the  quivering  hesitation  with  which  she  yielded. 

"You're  not  happy — yet,"  she  whispered.  "But  you 
will  be  happy." 

Thereafter  she  seemed  to  slip  away  from  them  for  a  space, 
losing  touch  as  it  were,  yet  still  not  beyond  their  reach. 
Once  or  twice  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pray,  but  they 
could  not  catch  her  words. 

The  dawn-light  grew  stronger  before  the  window.  The 
sound  of  the  waves  had  sunk  to  a  low  murmuring.  From 
where  she  knelt  Avery  could  see  the  far,  dim  line  of  sea. 
Piers'  arm  was  still  about  her.  She  felt  as  though  they  two 
were  kneeling  apart  before  an  Altar  invisble,  waiting  to 
receive  a  blessing. 

Jeanie's  breathing  was  growing  less  hurried.  She  seemed 
already  beyond  all  earthly  suffering.  Yet  her  eyes  also 
watched  that  far  dim  sky-line  as  though  they  waited  for  a 
sign. 


The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  497 

Slowly  the  light  deepened,  the  shadows  began  to  lift. 
Piers'  eyes  were  fixed  unswervingly  upon  the  child's  quiet 
face.  The  light  of  the  coming  Dawn  was  reflected  there. 
The  great  Change  was  very  near  at  hand. 

Far  away  to  the  left  there  grew  and  spread  a  wondrous 
brightness.  The  sky  seemed  to  recede,  turned  from  grey  to 
misty  blue.  A  veil  of  cloud  that  had  hidden  the  stars  all 
through  the  night  dissolved  softly  into  shreds  of  gold,  and 
across  the  sea  with  a  diamond  splendour  there  shot  the  first 
great  ray  of  sunlight. 

It  was  then  that  Jeanie  seemed  to  awake,  to  rise  as  it 
were  from  the  depths  of  reverie.  Her  eyes  widened,  grew 
intense;  then  suddenly  they  smiled. 

She  sought  to  raise  herself,  and  never  knew  that  it  was  by 
Piers'  strength  alone  that  she  was  lifted.  She  gave  a  gasp 
that  was  almost  a  cry,  but  it  was  gladness  not  pain  that  it 
expressed. 

For  a  few  panting  moments  she  gazed  out  as  one  rapt  in 
delight,  gazing  from  a  mountain-peak  upon  a  wider  view 
than  earthly  eyes  could  compass. 

Then  eagerly  she  turned  to  Piers.  "I  saw  Heaven 
opened  ..."  she  said,  and  in  her  low  voice  there  throbbed 
a  rapture  that  could  not  be  uttered  in  words. 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  something  stopped  her. 
She  made  a  gesture  as  though  she  would  clasp  him  round  the 
neck,  failed,  and  sank  down  in  his  arms. 

He  held  her  closely  to  him,  and  so  holding  her,  felt  the 
last  quivering  breath  slip  from  the  little  tired  body.  .  .  . 
32 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    DESERT    ROAD 

T^HAT  is  just  where   you  make   a  mistake,  my  good 

1  Crowther.  You're  an  awfully  shrewd  chap  in  some 
ways,  but  you  understand  women  just  about  as  thoroughly 
as  I  understand  theology. " 

Piers  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  regarded 
his  friend  affectionately. 

" Do  you  think  so?"  said  Crowther  a  little  drily. 

Piers  laughed.  "Now  I've  trodden  on  your  pet  corn. 
Bear  up,  old  chap!  It'll  soon  be  better. " 

Crowther's  own  face  relaxed,  but  he  did  not  look  satis 
fied.  "I'm  not  happy  about  you,  my  son,"  he  said.  "I 
think  you've  missed  a  big  opportunity." 

"You  think  wrong,"  said  Piers,  unmoved.  "I  couldn't 
possibly  have  stayed  another  hour.  I  was  in  a  false  posi 
tion.  So — poor  girl ! — was  she.  We  buried  the  hatchet  for 
the  kiddie's  sake,  but  it  wasn't  buried  very  deep.  I  did  my 
best,  and  I  think  she  did  hers.  But — even  that  last  night — 
we  kicked  against  it.  There  was  no  sense  in  pretending 
any  longer.  The  game  was  up.  So— I  came  away. " 

He  uttered  the  last  words  nonchalantly;  but  if  Crowther's 
knowledge  of  women  was  limited,  he  knew  his  own  species 
very  thoroughly,  and  he  was  not  deceived. 

"You  didn't  see  her  at  all  after  the  little  girl  died?"  he 
asked. 

498 


The  Desert  Road  499 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Piers.  "I  came  away  by  the  first 
train  I  could  catch." 

"And  left  her  to  her  trouble!"  Crowther's  wide  brow 
was  a  little  drawn.  There  was  even  a  hint  of  sternness 
in  his  steady  eyes. 

"Just  so,"  said  Piers.     "I  left  her  to  mourn  in  peace." 

"Didn't  you  so  much  as  write  a  line  of  explanation?" 
Crowther's  voice  was  troubled,  but  it  held  the  old  kindliness, 
the  old  human  sympathy. 

Piers  shook  his  head,  and  stared  upwards  at  the  ceiling. 
"Really  there  was  nothing  to  explain,"  he  said.  "She 
knows  me — so  awfully  well. " 

"I  wonder,"  said  Crowther. 

The  dark  eyes  flashed  him  a  derisive  glance.  "Better 
than  you  do,  dear  old  man,  though,  I  admit,  I've  let  you 
into  a  few  of  my  most  gruesome  corners.  I  couldn't  have 
done  it  if  I  hadn't  trusted  you.  You  realize  that  ? " 

Crowther  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.  "That  being 
so,  my  son,"  he  said,  "you  needn't  be  so  damned  light- 
hearted  for  my  benefit. " 

A  gleam  of  haughty  surprise  drove  the  smile  out  of  Piers' 
eyes.  He  straightened  himself  sharply.  "On  my  soul, 
Crowther — "  he  began;  then  stopped  and  leaned  back 
again  in  his  chair.  "Oh,  all  right.  I  forgot.  You  say  any 
silly  rot  you  like  to  me. " 

"And  now  and  then  the  truth  also,"  said  Crowther. 

Piers'  eyes  fenced  with  his,  albeit  a  faint  smile  hovered 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "I  really  am  not  such  a 
humbug  as  you  are  pleased  to  imagine,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment  with  an  oddly  boyish  touch  of  pride.  "  I'm  feeling 
lighthearted,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"Then  you  are  about  the  only  man  in  England  to-day 
who  is, "  responded  Crowther. 

"That  may  be, "  carelessly  Piers  made  answer.  "Nearly 
everyone  is  more  or  less  scared.  I'm  not.  It's  going  to  be 


500  The  Bars  of  Iron 

a  mighty  struggle — a  Titanic  struggle — but  we  shall  come 
out  on  top." 

"At  a  frightful  cost,"  Crowther  said. 

Piers  leapt  to  his  feet.  "We  shan't  shirk  it  on  that 
account.  See  here,  Crowther!  I'll  tell  you  something — if 
you'll  swear  to  keep  it  dark!" 

Crowther  looked  up  at  the  eager,  glowing  face  and  a  very 
tender  look  came  into  his  own.  "Well,  Piers?"  he  said. 

Piers  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  shoulders.  ' '  Crowther, 
Crowther,  old  chap,  congratulate  me!  I  took — the  King's 
shilling — to-day ! " 

"Ah!"  Crowther  said. 

He  gripped  Piers'  arms  tightly,  feeling  the  vitality  of 
him  pulse  in  every  sinew,  every  tense  nerve.  And  before 
his  mental  sight  there  rose  the  dread  vision  of  war — the 
insatiable — striding  like  a  devouring  monster  over  a  whole 
continent.  With  awful  clearness  he  saw  the  fields  of 
slain.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  came  back  to  Piers,  splendid  in  the  fire  of  his 
youth,  flushed  already  with  the  grim  joy  of  the  coming 
conflict.  He  got  up  slowly,  still  looking  into  the  handsome, 
olive  face  with  its  patrician  features  and  arrogant  self- 
confidence.  And  a  cold  hand  seemed  to  close  upon  his  heart. 

"Oh,  boy!"  he  said. 

Piers  frowned  upon  him,  still  half -laughing.  "What? 
Are  we  down-hearted ?  Buck  up,  man!  Congratulate  me ! 
I  was  one  of  the  first." 

But  congratulation  stuck  in  Crowther's  throat.  "I 
wish  this  had  come — twenty  years  ago!"  was  all  he  found 
to  say. 

"Thank  Heaven  it  didn't!"  ejaculated  Piers.  "Why, 
don't  you  see  it's  the  one  thing  for  me — about  the  only 
stroke  of  real  luck  I've  ever  had  in  my  life? " 

"And  your  wife  doesn't  know?"  said  Crowther. 

"She   does   not.     And   I   won't   have   her  told.     Mind 


The  Desert  Road  501 

that!"  Piers'  voice  was  suddenly  determined.  "She 
knows  I  shan't  keep  out  of  it,  and  that's  enough.  If  she 
wants  me — which  she  won't — she  can  get  at  me  through 
Victor  or  one  of  them.  But  that  won't  happen.  Don't 
you  worry  yourself  as  to  that,  my  good  Crowther!  I  know 
jolly  well  what  I'm  doing.  Don't  you  see  it's  the  chance 
of  my  life?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  miss  it,  what?" 

"  I  think  you're  going  to  break  her  heart, "  Crowther  said 
gravely. 

"That's  because  you  don't  understand,"  Piers  made 
steady  reply.  "Nothing  will  alter  so  long  as  I  stay.  But 
this  war  is  going  to  alter  everything.  We  shall  none  of  us 
come  out  of  it  as  we  went  in.  When  I  come  back — things 
will  be  different." 

He  spoke  sombrely.  The  boyish  ardour  had  gone  out 
of  him.  Something  of  fatefulness,  something  of  solemn 
realization,  of  steadfast  fortitude,  had  taken  its  place. 

"I  tell  you,  Crowther,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  doing  this 
thing  without  weighing  the  cost.  But — I  haven't  much 
to  lose,  and  I've  all  to  gain.  Even  if  it  doesn't  do — what 
I  hope,  it'll  steady  me  down,  it'll  make  a  man  of  me — and 
not — a  murderer. " 

His  voice  sank  on  the  last  word.  He  freed  himself  from 
Crowther's  hold  and  turned  away. 

Once  more  he  opened  the  window  to  the  roar  of  London's 
life;  and  co  standing,  with  his  back  to  Crowther,  he  spoke 
again  jerkily,  with  obvious  effort.  "Do  you  remember 
telling  me  that  something  would  turn  up?  Well, — it  has. 
I'm  waiting  to  see  what  will  come  of  it.  But — if  it's  any 
satisfaction  to  you  to  know  it — I've  got  clear  of  my  own 
particular  hell  at  last.  I  haven't  got  very  far,  mind,  and 
it's  a  beastly  desert  road  I'm  on.  But  I  know  it'll  lead 
somewhere;  so  I  shall  stick  to  it  now." 

He  paused  a  moment;  then  flung  round  and  faced 
Crowther  with  a  certain  air  of  triumph. 


502  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"Meantime,  old  chap,  don't  you  worry  yourself  about 
either  of  us!  My  wife  will  go  to  her  friend  Mrs.  Lorimer 
till  I  come  home  again.  Then — possibly — with  any  luck — 
she'll  come  to  me." 

He  smiled  with  the  words  and  came  back  to  the  table. 
"May  I  have  a  drink?"  he  said. 

Crowther  poured  one  out  for  him  in  silence.  Somehow  he 
could  not  speak.  There  was  that  about  Piers  that  stirred 
him  too  deeply  for  speech  just  then.  He  lifted  his  own 
glass  with  no  more  than  a  gesture  of  goodwill. 

"I  say,  don't  be  so  awfully  jolly  about  it!"  laughed 
Piers.  "I  tell  you  it's  going  to  end  all  right.  Life  is  like 
that." 

His  voice  was  light,  but  it  held  an  appeal  to  which 
Crowther  could  not  fail  to  respond. 

"God  bless  you,  my  son!"  he  said.  "Life  is  such  a 
mighty  big  thing  that  even  what  we  call  failure  doesn't 
count  in  the  long  run.  You'll  win  through  somehow." 

"And  p'r'aps  a  little  over,  what?"  laughed  Piers.  "Who 
knows?" 

"Who  knows?"  Crowther  echoed,  with  a  smile. 

But  he  could  not  shake  free  from  the  chill  foreboding 
that  had  descended  upon  him,  and  when  Piers  had  gone  he 
stood  for  a  long  time  before  his  open  window,  wrestling 
with  the  dark  phantom,  trying  to  reason  away  a  dread 
which  he  knew  to  be  beyond  all  reasoning. 

And  all  through  the  night  that  followed,  those  words  of 
Piers'  pursued  him,  marring  his  rest :  "  It's  a  beastly  desert 
road  I'm  on,  but  I  know  it'll  lead  somewhere."  And  the 
high  courage  of  his  bearing!  The  royal  confidence  of  his 
smile ! 

Ah,  God!  Those  boys  of  the  Empire,  going  forth  so 
gallantly  to  the  sacrifice ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ENCOUNTER 

PIERS  was  right.  When  Avery  left  Stanbury  Cliffs 
she  went  back  to  her  old  life  at  Rodding  Vicarage. 

Local  gossip  regarding  her  estrangement  from  her  hus 
band  had  practically  exhausted  itself  some  time  before,  and 
in  any  case  it  would  have  been  swamped  by  the  fevered 
anxiety  that  possessed  the  whole  country  during  those 
momentous  days. 

She  slipped  back  into  her  old  niche  almost  as  if  she  had 
never  left  it.  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  ill  with  grief  and  over 
work.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  Avery  should  take  up 
the  burden  of  her  care.  Even  the  Vicar  could  say  nothing 
against  it. 

Avery  sometimes  wondered  if  Jeanie's  death  had  pierced 
the  armour  of  his  self-complacence  at  any  point.  If  it  had, 
it  was  not  perceptible ;  but  she  did  fancy  now  and  then  that 
she  detected  in  him  a  shade  more  of  consideration  for  his 
wife  than  he  had  been  wont  to  display.  He  condescended 
to  bestow  upon  her  a  little  more  of  his  kindly  patronage, 
and  he  was  certainly  less  severe  in  his  dealings  with  the 
children. 

Of  the  blank  in  Mrs.  Lorimer's  life  only  Avery  had  any 
conception,  for  she  shared  it  with  her  during  every  hour  of 
the  day.  Perhaps  her  own  burden  weighed  more  heavily 
upon  her  than  ever  before  at  that  time,  for  the  anxiety  she 
suffered  was  sometimes  more  than  she  could  bear.  For 

5°3 


504  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Piers  had  gone  from  her  without  a  word.  Straight  from 
Jeanie's  death-bed  he  had  gone,  without  a  single  word  of 
explanation  or  farewell.  That  she  had  wounded  him 
deeply,  albeit  inadvertently,  on  that  last  day  she  knew; 
but  with  his  arm  closely  clasping  her  by  Jeanie's  bedside 
she  had  dared  to  hope  that  he  had  forgiven  the  wound. 
Now  she  felt  that  it  was  otherwise.  He  had  gone  from  her 
in  bitterness  of  soul,  and  the  barrier  between  them  was  such 
that  she  could  not  call  him  back.  More  and  more  the 
conviction  grew  upon  her  that  those  moments  of  tender 
ness  had  been  no  more  than  a  part  of  the  game  he  had 
summoned  her  to  play  for  Jeanie's  sake.  He  had  called  it  a 
hollow  bargain.  He  had  declared  that  for  no  other  reason 
would  he  have  proposed  it  to  her.  And  now  that  the  farce 
was  over,  he  had  withdrawn  from  it.  He  had  said  that  he 
had  not  found  it  easy.  He  had  called  it  mere  pretence. 
And  now  she  had  begun  to  think  that  he  meant  their 
separation  to  be  final.  If  he  had  uttered  one  word  of  fare 
well,  if  he  had  but  sent  her  a  line  later,  she  knew  that 
she  would  have  responded  in  some  measure  even  though  the 
gulf  between  them  remained  unbridged.  But  his  utter 
silence  was  unassailable.  The  conviction  grew  upon  her 
that  he  no  longer  desired  to  bridge  the  gulf.  He  meant 
to  accept  their  estrangement  as  inevitable.  He  had  left 
her,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  return. 

Through  the  long  weary  watches  of  many  nights  Avery 
pondered  his  attitude,  and  sought  in  vain  for  any  other  ex 
planation.  She  came  at  last  to  believe  that  the  fierce  flame 
of  his  passion  had  wholly  burnt  itself  out,  consuming  all  the 
love  he  had  ever  known;  and  that  only  ashes  remained. 

So  she  could  not  call  him  back,  and  for  a  time  she  even 
shrank  from  asking  news  of  him.  Then  one  day  she  met 
Victor  sorrowfully  exercising  Caesar  along  the  confines  of 
the  Park,  and  stopped  him  when  with  a  melancholy  salute 
he  would  have  passed  her  by. 


The  Encounter  505 

His  eyes  brightened  a  little  at  her  action,  but  he  volun 
teered  no  information  and  she  decided  later  that  he  had 
obeyed  orders  in  adopting  this  attitude.  With  an  effort 
she  questioned  him.  How  was  it  he  was  not  with  his 
master  ? 

He  spread  out  his  hands  in  mournful  protest.  Mais  Mon 
sieur  Pierre  had  not  required  his  services  depuis  longtemps. 
He  was  become  very  independent.  But  yes,  he  was  engaged 
upon  war  work.  In  the  Army?  But  yes  again.  Did 
not  Madame  know?  And  then  he  became  vague  and 
sentimental,  bemoaning  his  own  age  and  consequent 
inactivity,  and  finally  went  away  with  brimming  eyes  and 
the  dubiously  expressed  hope  that  le  bon  Dieu  would  fight 
on  the  right  side. 

It  was  all  wholly  unsatisfactory,  and  Avery  yearned  to 
know  more.  But  the  pain  of  investigating  further  held  her 
back.  If  that  growing  conviction  of  hers  were  indeed  the 
truth,  she  shrank  morbidly  from  seeming  to  make  any 
advance.  No  one  seemed  to  know  definitely  what  had 
become  of  Piers.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  apply  to 
outsiders  for  information,  and  there  was  no  one  to  take  up 
her  case  and  make  enquiries  on  her  behalf.  Lennox  Tudor 
had  volunteered  for  service  in  the  Medical  Corps  and  had 
been  accepted.  She  did  not  so  much  as  know  where  he  was, 
though  he  was  declared  by  Miss  Whalley,  who  knew  most 
things,  to  be  on  Salisbury  Plain.  She  sometimes  wondered 
with  wry  humour  if  Miss  Whalley  could  have  enlightened 
her  as  to  her  husband's  whereabouts;  but  that  lady's  atti 
tude  towards  her  was  invariably  expressive  of  such  icy  dis 
approval  that  she  never  ventured  to  put  the  wonder  into 
words. 

And  then  one  afternoon  of  brilliant  autumn  she  was  shop 
ping  with  Gracie  in  Wardenhurst,  and  came  face  to  face  with 
Ina  Guyes. 

Dick  Guyes  had  gone  into  the  Artillery,  and  Ina  had 


506  The  Bars  of  Iron 

returned  to  her  father's  house.  She  and  Avery  had  not 
met  since  Ina's  wedding-day  more  than  a  year  before;  but 
their  recognition  was  mutual  and  instant. 

There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation  on  both  sides,  a  difficult 
moment  of  intangible  reluctance;  then  Avery  held  out  her 
hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said. 

Ina  took  the  hand  perfunctorily  between  her  fingers  and 
at  once  relinquished  it.  She  was  looking  remarkably 
handsome,  Avery  thought;  but  her  smile  was  not  con 
spicuously  amiable,  and  her  eyes  held  something  that  was 
very  nearly  akin  to  condemnation. 

"Quite  well,  thanks,"  she  said,  with  her  off-hand  air  of 
arrogance  which  had  become  much  more  marked  since  her 
marriage.  "  You  all  right  ?" 

Avery  felt  herself  grow  reticent  and  chilly  as  she  made 
reply.  The  girl's  eyes  of  scornful  enquiry  made  her  stiffen 
instinctively.  She  was  prepared  to  bow  and  pass  on,  but 
for  some  reason  Ina  was  minded  to  linger. 

"Has  Piers  come  down  yet?"  she  asked  abruptly.  "I 
saw  him  in  town  two  nights  ago.  I've  been  up  there  for  a 
day  or  two  with  Dick,  but  he  has  rejoined  now.  It's  been 
embarkation  leave.  They're  off  directly. " 

Off!  Avery 's  heart  gave  a  single  hard  throb  and  stood 
still.  She  looked  at  Ina  wordlessly.  The  shop  in  which 
they  stood  suddenly  lost  all  form  and  sound.  It  seemed  to 
float  round  her  in  nebulous  billows. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Ina.  "Don't  look  like  that! 
What 'sup?  Aren't  you  well  ?  Here,  sit  down!  Or  better 
still,  come  outside!" 

She  gripped  Avery's  arm  in  a  tense,  insistent  grasp  and 
piloted  her  to  the  door. 

Avery  went,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did.  Ina  turned 
commandingly  to  Gracie. 

"Look  here,  child!     You  stay  and  collect   the   parcels! 


The  Encounter  507 

I'm  going  to  take  Lady  Evesham  a  little  way  in  the  car. 
We'll  come  back  for  you  in  a  few  minutes. " 

She  had  her  own  way,  as  she  had  always  had  it  on  every 
occasion,  save  one,  throughout  her  life. 

When  Avery  felt  her  heart  begin  to  beat  again,  she  was 
lying  back  in  a  closed  car  with  Ina  seated  beside  her,  very 
upright,  extremely  alert. 

"Don't  speak!"  the  latter  said,  as  their  eyes  met.  "I'll 
tell  you  all  I  know.  Dick  and  I  have  been  stopping  at 
Marchmont's  for  the  last  five  days,  and  one  night  Piers 
walked  in.  Of  course  we  made  him  join  us.  He  was  very 
thin,  but  looked  quite  tough  and  sunburnt.  He  is  rather 
magnificent  in  khaki — like  a  prince  masquerading.  I  think 
he  talked  without  ceasing  during  the  whole  evening,  but 
he  didn't  say  a  single  word  that  I  can  remember.  He 
expects  to  go  almost  any  day  now.  He  is  in  a  regiment 
of  Lancers,  but  I  couldn't  get  any  particulars  out  of  him. 
He  didn't  choose  to  be  communicative,  so  of  course  I  left 
him  alone.  He  is  turning  white  about  the  temples ;  did  you 
know?" 

Avery  braced  herself  to  answer  the  blunt  question. 
There  was  something  merciless  about  Ina's  straight  regard. 
It  pierced  her;  but  oddly  she  felt  no  resentment,  only  a 
curious  sensation  of  compassionate  sympathy. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him — some  weeks  ago,  "  she  said. 

"You  have  not  decided  to  separate  then?  Everyone 
said  you  had." 

Ina's  tone  was  brutally  direct,  yet  still,  strangely,  Avery 
felt  no  indignation. 

"We  have  not  been — friends — for  the  last  year,"  she 
said. 

"Ah!  I  thought  not.  And  why?  Just  because  of  that 
story  about  your  first  husband's  death  that  Dick's  hateful 
cousin  spread  about  on  our  wedding-day?" 

Ina  looked  at  her  with  searching,  challenging  eyes,  and 


508  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Avery  felt  suddenly  as  if  she  were  the  younger  and  weaker 
of  the  two. 

"Was  it  because  of  that?"  Ina  insisted. 

"Yes,  "she  admitted. 

"And  you  let  such  a  thing  as  that  come  between  you  and 
— and — Piers!"  There  was  incredulous  amazement  in 
Ina's  voice.  "You  actually  had  the — the — the  presump 
tion  ! ' '  Coherent  words  suddenly  seemed  to  fail  her,  but  she 
went  on  regardless,  not  caring  how  they  came.  ' '  A  man  like 
Piers, — a — a — Triton  like  that, — such  a  being  as  is  only 
turned  out  once  in — in  a  dozen  centuries !  Oh,  fool !  Fool ! " 
She  clenched  her  hands,  and  beat  them  impotently  upon  her 
lap.  "What  did  it  matter  what  he'd  done  ?  He  was  yours. 
He  worshipped  you.  And  the  worship  of  a  man  like  Piers 
must  be — must  be — "  She  broke  off,  one  hand  caught 
convulsively  to  her  throat;  then  swallowed  hard  and  rushed 
on.  "You  sent  him  away,  did  you?  You  wouldn't  live 
with  him  any  longer?  My  God!  Piers!"  Again  her 
throat  worked  spasmodically,  and  she  controlled  it  with 
fierce  effort.  "He  won't  stay  true  to  you  of  course,"  she 
said,  more  quietly.  "You  don't  expect  that,  do  you? 
You  can't  care — since  you  wouldn't  stick  to  him.  You've 
practically  forced  him  into  the  mire.  I  sometimes  think 
that  one  virtuous  woman  can  do  more  harm  in  the  world 
than  a  dozen  of  the  other  sort.  You've  embittered  him  for 
life.  You've  made  him  surfer  horribly.  I  expect  you've 
suffered  too.  I  hope  you  have !  But  your  sorrows  are  not 
to  be  compared  with  his.  He  has  red  blood  in  his  veins, 
but  you're  too  attenuated  with  goodness  to  know  what  real 
suffering  means.  You  had  the  whole  world  in  jour  grasp 
and  you  threw  it  away  for  a  whim,  just  because  you  were 
too  small,  too  contemptibly  mean,  to  understand.  You 
thought  you  loved  him,  I  daresay.  Well,  you  didn't.  Love 
is  a  very  different  thing.  Love  never  casts  away.  But  of 
course  you  can't  understand  that.  You  are  one  of  those 


The  Encounter  509 

women  who  keep  down  all  the  blinds  lest  the  sunshine 
should  fade  their  souls.  You  don't  know  even  the  begin 
nings  of  Love!" 

Passionately  she  uttered  the  words,  but  in  a  voice  pitched 
so  low  that  Avery  only  just  caught  them.  And  having 
uttered  them  almost  in  the  same  breath,  she  took  up  the 
speaking-tube  and  addressed  the  chauffeur. 

Avery  sat  quite  still  and  silent.  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  attacked  and  completely  routed  by  a  creature  consider 
ably  smaller,  but  infinitely  more  virile,  more  valiant,  than 
herself. 

Ina  did  not  speak  to  her  again  for  several  minutes.  She 
threw  herself  back  against  the  cushion  with  an  oddly 
petulant  gesture,  and  leaned  there  staring  moodily  out. 

Then,  as  they  neared  their  starting-point,  she  sat  up 
and  spoke  again  with  a  species  of  bored  indifference.  "Of 
course  it's  no  affair  of  mine.  I  don't  care  two  straws  how 
you  treat  him.  But  surely  you'll  try  and  give  him  some  sort 
of  send-off?  I  wouldn't  let  even  Dick  go  without  that." 

Even  Dick!  There  was  a  world  of  revelation  in  those 
words.  Avery's  heart  stirred  again  in  pity,  and  still  her 
indignation  slumbered. 

They  reached  the  shop  before  which  Gracie  was  waiting 
for  them,  and  stopped. 

"Good-bye!"  Avery  said  gently. 

"Oh,  good-bye!"  Ina  looked  at  her  with  eyes  half  closed. 
"I  won't  get  out  if  you  don't  mind.  I  must  be  getting 
back." 

She  did  not  offer  her  hand,  but  she  did  not  refuse  it 
when  very  quietly  Avery  offered  her  own.  It  was  not 
a  warm  hand-clasp  on  either  side,  but  neither  was  it 
unfriendly. 

As  she  drove  away,  Ina  leaned  forward  and  bowed  with  an 
artificial  smile  on  her  lips.  And  Avery  saw  that  she  was 
very  pale. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PLACE  OF  REPENTANCE 

LIKE  a  prince  masquerading!  How  vivid  was  the 
picture  those  words  called  up  to  Avery's  mind!  The 
regal  pose  of  the  body,  the  turn  of  the  head,  the  faultless 
beauty  of  the  features,  and  over  all,  that  nameless  pride  of 
race,  arrogant  yet  wholly  unconscious — the  stamp  of  the 
old  Roman  patrician,  revived  from  the  dust  of  ages! 

Aloof,  yet  never  out  of  her  ken,  that  picture  hung  before 
her  all  through  the  night,  the  centre-piece  of  every  vision 
that  floated  through  her  weary  brain.  In  the  morning  she 
awoke  to  a  definite  resolve. 

He  had  left  her  before  she  could  stay  him ;  but  she  would 
go  to  him  now.  Whether  or  not  he  wanted  her, — yes,  even 
with  the  possibility  of  seeing  him  turn  from  her, — she  would 
seek  him  out.  Yet  this  once  more  stie  would  offer  to  him 
that  love  and  faith  which  he  had  so  cruelly  sullied.  If  he 
treated  her  with  cold  contempt,  she  would  yet  offer  to  him 
all  that  she  had — all  that  she  had.  Not  because  she  had 
forgiven  him  or  in  any  sense  forgotten;  but  because  she 
must;  because  neither  forgiveness  nor  forgetfulness  came 
into  the  matter,  but  only  those  white  hairs  above  his 
temples  that  urged  her,  that  drove  her,  that  compelled 
her. 

There  were  no  white  hairs  in  her  own  brown  tresses. 
Could  it  be  that  he  had  really  suffered  more  than  she?  If 
:so,  God  pity  him!  God  help  him! 

510 


The  Place  of  Repentance  511 

For  the  first  time  since  their  parting,  the  prayer  for 
him  that  rose  from  her  heart  kindled  within  her  a  glow 
that  burned  as  fire  from  the  altar.  She  had  prayed.  She 
had  prayed.  But  her  prayers  had  seemed  to  come  back 
to  her  from  a  void  immeasurable  that  held  nought  but  the 
echoes  of  her  cry. 

But  now — was  it  because  she  was  ready  to  act  as  well 
as  to  pray? — it  seemed  to  her  that  her  appeal  had  reached 
the  Infinite.  And  it  was  then  that  she  began  to  learn  that 
prayer  is  not  only  a  passive  asking,  but  the  eager  straining 
of  every  nerve  towards  fulfilment. 

It  seemed  useless  to  go  to  the  Abbey  for  news.  She 
would  master  her  reluctance  and  go  to  Crowther.  She  was 
sure  that  he  would  be  in  a  position  to  tell  her  all  there  was 
to  know. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  warmly  applauded  the  idea.  The  con 
tinued  estrangement  of  the  two  people  whom  she  loved  so 
dearly  was  one  of  her  greatest  secret  sorrows  now.  She 
urged  Avery  to  go,  shedding  tears  over  the  thought  of  Piers 
going  unspeeded  into  the  awful  dangers  of  war. 

So  by  the  middle  of  the  morning  Avery  was  on  her  way. 
It  seemed  to  her  the  longest  journey  she  had  ever  travelled. 
She  chafed  at  every  pause.  And  through  it  all,  Ina's 
fierce  words  ran  in  a  perpetual  refrain  through  her  brain: 
"Love  never  casts  away — Love  never  casts  away. " 

She  felt  as  if  the  girl  had  ruthlessly  let  a  flood  of  light  in 
upon  her  gloom,  dazzling  her,  bewildering  her,  hurting 
her  with  its  brilliance.  She  had  forced  aside  those  drawn 
blinds.  She  had  pierced  to  the  innermost  corners.  And 
Avery  herself  was  shocked  by  that  which  had  been  revealed. 
It  had  never  before  been  given  to  her  to  see  her  own  motives, 
her  own  soul,  thus.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  the  canker 
of  selfishness  that  lay  at  the  root  of  all.  With  shame  she 
remembered  her  assurance  to  her  husband  that  her  love 
should  never  fail  him.  What  of  that  love  now — Love  the 


512  The  Bars  of  Iron 

Invincible  that  should  have  shattered  the  gates  of  the 
prison-house  and  led  him  forth  in  triumph  ? 

Reaching  town,  she  drove  straight  to  Crowther's  rooms. 
But  she  was  met  with  disappointment.  Crowther  was 
out.  He  would  be  back  in  the  evening,  she  was  told,  but 
probably  not  before. 

Wearily  she  went  down  again  and  out  into  the  seething 
life  of  the  streets  to  spend  the  longest  day  of  her  life  wait 
ing  for  his  return.  Looking  back  upon  that  day  afterwards, 
she  often  wondered  how  she  actually  spent  the  time.  To 
and  fro,  to  and  fro,  this  way  and  that ;  now  trying  to  ease  her 
soul  by  watching  the  soldiers  at  drill  in  the  Park,  the  long, 
long  khaki  lines  and  sunburnt  faces;  now  pacing  the  edge  of 
the  water  and  seeking  distraction  in  the  antics  of  some 
water-fowl;  now  back  again  in  the  streets,  moving  with  the 
crowd,  seeing  soldiers,  soldiers  on  every  hand,  scanning  each 
almost  mechanically  with  the  vagrant  hope  of  meeting  one 
who  moved  with  a  haughty  pride  of  carriage  and  looked  like 
a  prince  in  disguise.  Sometimes  she  stood  to  see  a  whole 
troop  pass  by,  splendid  boys  swinging  along  with  laughter 
and  careless  singing.  She  listened  to  the  tramping  feet  and 
merry  voices  with  a  heart  that  sank  ever  lower  and  lower. 
She  had  started  the  day  with  a  quivering  wonder  if  the  end 
of  it  might  find  her  in  his  arms.  But  ever  as  the  hours 
passed  by  the  certainty  grew  upon  her  that  this  would  not 
be.  She  grew  sick  with  the  longing  to  see  his  face.  She 
ached  for  the  sound  of  his  voice.  And  deep  in  the  heart  of 
her  she  knew  that  this  futile  yearning  was  to  be  her  portion 
for  many,  many  days.  For  over  a  year  he  had  waited, 
and  he  had  waited  in  vain.  Now  it  was  her  turn. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  she  went  again  in  search  of 
Crowther.  He  had  not  returned,  but  she  could  not  endure 
that  aimless  wandering  any  longer.  She  went  in  to  wait 
for  him,  there  in  the  room  where  Piers  had  found  sanctuary 
during  some  of  the  darkest  hours  of  his  life. 


The  Place  of  Repentance  513 

She  was  too  utterly  weaned  to  move  about,  but  sat 
sunk  in  the  chair  by  the  window,  almost  too  numbed  with 
misery  and  fatigue  for  coherent  thought.  The  dusk 
deepened  about  her.  The  roar  of  London's  life  came 
vaguely  from  afar.  Through  it  and  above  it  she  still  seemed 
to  hear  the  tread  of  the  marching  feet  as  the  gallant  lines 
swung  by.  And  still  with  aching  concentration  she  seemed 
to  be  searching  for  that  one  beloved  face. 

What  did  it  matter  what  he  had  done?  He  was  hers. 
He  was  hers.  And,  O  God,  how  she  wanted  him!  How 
gladly  in  that  hour  would  she  have  yielded  him  all — all 
that  she*  had  to  offer! 

There  came  a  quiet  step  without,  a  steady  hand  on  the 
door.  She  started  up  with  a  wild  hope  clamouring  at  her 
heart.  Might  he  not  be  there  also?  It  was  possible! 
Surely  it  was  possible ! 

She  took  a  quick  step  forward.  No  conventional  word 
would  rise  to  her  lips.  They  only  stiffly  uttered  the  one 
name:  "Piers!" 

And  Crowther  answered  her,  just  as  though  no  interval 
of  more  than  a  year  lay  between  them  and  the  old  warm 
friendship.  "He  left  for  the  Front  to-day." 

With  the  words  he  reached  her,  and  she  remembered 
later  the  sustaining  strength  with  which  his  hands  upheld 
her  when  she  reeled  beneath  the  blow. 

He  put  her  down  again  in  the  chair,  and  knelt  beside 
her,  for  she  clung  to  him  convulsively,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  did. 

"He  ought  to  have  let  you  know,"  he  said.  "But  he 
wouldn't  be  persuaded.  I  believe — right  up  to  the  last — he 
hoped  he  would  hear  something  of  you.  But  you  know 
him,  his  damnable  pride, — or  was  it  chivalry  this  time? 
On  my  soul,  I  scarcely  know  which.  He  behaved  almost  as 
if  he  were  under  an  oath  not  to  make  the  first  advance.  I 
am  very  sorry,  Avery.  But  my  hands  were  tied." 


5H  The  Bars  of  Iron 

V 

He  paused,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  word 
from  her — of  kindness  or  reproach — some  intimation  of  her 
feelings  towards  himself.  But  she  could  only  utter  voice- 
lessly,  "I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

He  pressed  her  icy  hands  close  in  his  own,  but  he  said 
no  word  of  hope.  He  seemed  to  know  instinctively  that  it 
was  not  the  moment. 

"You  can  write  to  him,"  he  said.  "  You  can  write  now — 
to-night.  The  letter  will  reach  him  in  a  few  days  at  most. 
He  calls  himself  Beverley — Private  Beverley.  Let  me  give 
you  some  tea,  and  you  can  sit  down  and  write  straight 
away." 

Kindly  and  practical,  he  offered  her  the  consolation  of 
immediate  action;  and  the  crushing  sense  of  loss  began 
gradually  to  lose  its  hold  upon  her. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything — all  I  know,"  he 
said.  "I  told  him  I  should  do  so  if  you  came  to  me.  I 
only  wish  you  had  come  a  little  sooner,  but  that  is  beside 
the  point. " 

Again  he  paused.  Her  eyes  were  upon  him,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

Finding  her  hold  had  slackened,  he  got  up,  lighted  a 
lamp,  and  sat  down  with  its  light  streaming  across  his 
rugged  face. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  been  thinking  of  me  all 
this  time, "  he  said,  "if  you  have  stooped  to  think  of  me  at 
all." 

"I  have  often  thought  of  you,"  A  very  answered.  "But 
I  had  a  feeling  that  you — that  you — "  she  hesitated — 
"that  you  could  scarcely  be  in  sympathy  with  us  both," 
she  ended. 

"  I  see. "  Crowther's  eyes  met  hers  with  absolute  direct 
ness.  "But  you  realize  that  that  was  a  mistake, "  he  said. 

She  answered  him  in  the  affirmative.  Before  those 
straight  eyes  of  his  she  could  not  do  otherwise. 


The  Place  of  Repentance  515 

"I  could  not  express  my  sympathy  with  you,"  he  said. 
"I  did  not  even  know  that  it  would  be  welcome,  and  I 
could  not  interfere  without  your  husband's  consent.  I  was 
bound  by  a  promise.  But —  "  he  smiled  faintly — "I  told 
him  clearly  that  if  you  came  to  me  I  should  not  keep  that 
promise.  I  should  regard  it  as  my  release. " 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me?"  A  very  asked. 

"Just  this,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  a  very  long  story,  but  I 
don't  think  you  have  heard  it  before.  It's  just  the  story  of 
one  of  the  worst  bits  of  bad  luck  that  ever  befell  a  man.  He 
was  only  a  lad  of  nineteen,  and  he  went  out  into  the  world 
with  all  his  life  before  him.  He  was  rich  and  successful  in 
every  way,  full  of  promise,  brilliant.  There  was  something 
so  splendid  about  him  that  he  seemed  somehow  to  belong  to 
a  higher  planet.  He  had  never  known  failure  or  disgrace. 
But  one  night  an  evil  fate  befell  him.  He  was  forced  to 
fight — against  his  will;  and — he  killed  his  man.  It  was  an 
absolutely  unforeseen  result.  He  took  heavy  odds,  and 
naturally  he  matched  them  with  all  the  skill  at  his  command. 
But  it  was  a  fair  fight.  I  testify  to  that.  He  took  no  mean 
advantage." 

Crowther's  eyes  were  gazing  beyond  Avery.  He  spoke 
with  a  curious  deliberation  as  if  he  were  describing  a  vision 
that  hung  before  him. 

"He  himself  was  more  shocked  by  the  man's  death  than 
anyone  I  have  ever  seen.  He  accepted  the  responsibility 
at  once.  There  is  a  lot  of  nobility  at  the  back  of  that  man's 
soul.  He  wanted  to  give  himself  up.  But  I  stepped  in. 
I  took  the  law  into  my  own  hands.  I  couldn't  stand  by  and 
see  him  ruined.  I  made  him  bolt.  He  went,  and  I  saw  no 
more  of  him  for  six  years.  That  ends  the  first  chapter  of 
the  story." 

He  paused,  as  if  for  question  or  comment;  but  Avery 
sat  in  unbroken  silence.  Her  eyes  also  were  fixed  as  it 
were  upon  something  very  far  away. 


516  The  Bars  of  Iron 

After  a  moment,  he  resumed.  "Six  years  after,  I  stopped 
at  Monte  Carlo  on  my  way  home,  and  I  chanced  upon  him 
there.  He  was  with  his  old  grandfather,  living  a  life  that 
would  have  driven  most  young  men  crazy  with  boredom. 
But — I  told  you  there  was  something  fine  about  him — he 
treated  the  whole  thing  as  a  joke,  and  I  saw  that  he  was 
the  apple  of  the  old  man's  eye.  He  hailed  me  as  an  old 
friend.  He  welcomed  me  back  into  his  life  as  if  I  were 
only  associated  with  pleasant  things.  But  I  soon  saw  that 
he  was  not  happy.  The  memory  of  that  tragedy  was 
hanging  on  him  like  a  millstone.  He  was  trying  to  drag 
himself  free.  But  he  was  like  a  dog  on  a  chain.  He  could 
see  his  liberty,  but  he  could  not  reach  it.  And  the  fact 
that  he  loved  a  woman,  and  believed  that  he  had  won  her 
love  made  the  burden  even  heavier.  So  I  gathered,  though 
he  had  his  intervals  of  reckless  happiness  when  nothing 
seemed  to  matter.  I  didn't  know  who  the  woman  was  at 
first,  but  I  urged  him  strongly  to  tell  her  the  truth  before 
he  married  her.  And  then  somehow,  while  we  were  walk 
ing  together  one  night,  it  came  out — that  trick  of  Fate; 
and  in  his  horror  and  despair  the  boy  very  nearly  went  under 
altogether.  It  was  just  the  fineness  of  his  nature  that  kept 
him  up." 

"And  your  help,"  said  Avery  quietly. 

His  eyes  comprehended  her  for  a  moment.  "Yes,  I  did 
my  best,"  he  said.  "But  it  was  his  own  nobility  in  the 
main  that  gave  him  strength.  Have  you  never  noticed 
that  about  him?  He  has  the  greatness  that  only  comes 
to  most  men  after  years  of  struggle." 

"I  have  noticed, "  Avery  said,  her  voice  very  low. 

Crowther  went  on  in  his  slow,  steady  way.  "Well,  after 
that,  I  left.  And  the  next  thing  I  knew  was  that  the  old 
man  had  died,  and  he  was  married  to  you.  You  didn't  let 
me  into  the  secret  very  soon,  you  know."  He  smiled 
a  little.  "Of  course  I  realized  that  you  had  gone  to  him 


The  Place  of  Repentance  517 

rather  suddenly  to  comfort  his  loneliness.  It  was  just  the 
sort  of  thing  I  should  have  expected  of  you.  And  I  thought 
— too — that  he  had  told  you  all,  and  you  had  loved  him  well 
enough  to  forgive  him.  It  wasn't  till  I  came  to  see  you 
that  I  realized  that  this  was  not  so,  and  I  had  been  in  the 
house  some  hours  even  then  before  it  dawned  on  me." 

Again  he  spoke  as  one  describing  something  seen  afar. 

"Of  course  I  was  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  knew  that  sooner 
or  later  you  were  bound  to  come  up  against  it.  I  couldn't 
help.  I  just  waited.  And  as  it  chanced,  I  didn't  have  to 
wait  very  long.  Piers  came  to  me  one  night  in  August,  and 
told  me  that  the  whole  thing  had  come  out,  and  that  you  had 
refused  to  live  with  him  any  longer.  I  understood  your 
feelings.  It  was  inevitable  that  at  first  you  should  feel  like 
that.  But  I  knew  you  loved  him.  I  knew  that  sooner 
or  later  that  would  make  a  difference.  And  I  tried  to 
hearten  him  up.  For  he — poor  lad ! — was  nearly  mad  with 
trouble." 

Avery's  hands  closed  tightly  upon  each  other  in  her  lap. 
She  sat  in  strained  silence,  still  gazing  straight  before  her. 

Gently  Crowther  finished  his  tale.  "That's  about  all 
there  is  to  tell,  except  that  from  the  day  he  left  you  to 
this,  he  has  borne  his  burden  like  a  man,  and  he  has  never 
once  done  anything  unworthy  of  you.  He  is  a  man,  Avery, 
not  a  boy  any  longer.  He  is  a  man  you  can  trust,  for  he 
will  never  deceive  you  again.  If  he  hasn't  yet  found  his 
place  of  repentance,  it  hasn't  been  for  lack  of  the  seeking. 
If  you  can  send  him  a  line  of  forgiveness,  he  will  go  into  this 
war  with  a  high  heart,  and  you  will  have  reason  to  be  proud 
of  him  when  you  meet  again. " 

He  got  up  and  moved  in  his  slow,  massive  way  across  the 
room. 

"Now  you  will  let  me  give  you  some  tea,"  he  said.  "I 
am  sure  you  must  be  tired. " 

Had  he  seen  the  tears  rolling  down  her  face  as  she  sat 


The  Bars  of  Iron 


there?  If  so  he  gave  no  sign.  Quietly  he  busied  himself 
with  his  preparations,  and  before  he  came  back  to  her,  she 
had  wiped  them  away. 

He  waited  upon  her  with  womanly  gentleness,  and  later 
he  went  with  her  to  the  hotel  at  which  Piers  usually  stayed, 
and  saw  her  established  there  for  the  night. 

It  was  not  till  the  moment  of  parting  that  she  found  any 
words  in  which  to  express  herself. 

Then,  with  her  hand  in  his,  she  whispered  chokingly, 
"I  feel  as  if  —  as  if  —  I  had  failed  him  —  just  when  he  needed 
me  most.  He  was  in  prison,  and  —  I  left  him  there.  " 

Crowther's  steady  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  kindness 
that  was  full  of  sustaining  comfort.  "He  has  broken  out 
of  his  prison,"  he  said.  "Don't  fret  —  don't  fret!" 

Her  lips  were  quivering  painfully.  She  turned  her  face 
aside.  "  He  will  scarcely  need  me  now,  "  she  said. 

"Write  and  ask  him!"  said  Crowther  gently. 

She  made  a  piteous  gesture  of  hopelessness.  "  I  have  got 
to  find  my  own  place  of  repentance  first,  "  she  said. 

"I  shouldn't  wait,"  said  Crowther.     "Write  to-night!" 

And  so  for  half  the  night  Avery  sat  writing  a  letter  to  her 
husband  which  he  was  destined  never  to  receive. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  RELEASE  OF  THE  PRISONER 

HOW  long  was  it  since  the  fight  round  the  chateau? 
Piers  had  no  idea.  The  damp  chill  of  the  autumn 
night  was  upon  him  and  he  was  cold  to  the  bone. 

It  had  been  a  desperate  fight  in  which  quarter  had  been 
neither  asked  nor  given,  hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face, 
with  wild  oaths  and  dreadful  laughter.  He  had  not  noticed 
the  tumult  at  the  time,  but  the  echoes  of  it  still  rang  in  his 
ears.  A  desperate  fight  against  overwhelming  odds!  For 
the  chateau  had  been  strongly  held,  and  the  struggle  for 
it  had  seemed  Titanic,  albeit  only  a  detail  of  a  rearguard 
action.  There  had  been  guns  there  that  had  harried  them 
all  the  previous  day.  It  had  become  a  matter  of  necessity 
to  silence  those  guns.  So  the  effort  had  been  made,  a  glori 
ous  effort  crowned  with  success.  They  had  mastered  the 
garrison,  they  had  silenced  the  guns;  and  then,  within  an 
hour  of  their  victory,  disaster  had  come  upon  them.  Great 
numbers  of  the  enemy  had  swept  suddenly  upon  them,  had 
surrounded  them  and  swallowed  them  up. 

It  was  all  over  now.  The  tide  of  battle  had  swept  on. 
The  place  was  silent  as  the  grave.  He  was  the  only  man  left, 
flung  as  it  were  upon  a  dust-heap  in  a  corner  of  the  world 
that  had  ceased  to  matter  to  anyone. 

He  had  lain  for  hours  unconscious  till  those  awful  chills 
had  awakened  him.  Doubtless  he  had  been  left  for  dead 
among  his  dead  comrades.  He  wondered  why  he  was  not 


520  The  Bars  of  Iron 

dead.  He  had  a  distinct  recollection  of  being  shot  through 
the  heart.  And  the  bullet  had  gone  out  at  his  back.  He 
vividly  remembered  that  also — the  red-hot  anguish  as  it  had 
torn  its  way  through  him,  the  awful  emptiness  of  death 
that  had  followed. 

How  had  he  escaped — if  he  had  escaped  ?  How  had  he 
returned  from  that  great  silence  ?  Why  had  the  dread  Door 
shut  against  him  only,  imprisoning  him  here  when  all  the 
rest  had  passed  through  ?  There  seemed  to  be  some  mystery 
about  it.  He  tried  to  follow  it  out.  Death  was  no  difficult 
matter.  He  was  convinced  of  that.  Yet  somehow  Death 
had  eluded  him.  He  was  as  a  man  who  had  lost  his  way 
in  a  fog.  Doubtless  he  would  find  it  again.  He  did  not 
want  to  wander  alone  in  this  valley  of  dry  bones.  He 
wanted  to  get  free.  He  was  sure  that  sooner  or  later  that 
searing,  red-hot  bullet  would  do  its  work. 

For  a  space  he  drifted  back  into  the  vast  sea  of  uncon 
sciousness  in  which  he  had  been  submerged  for  so  long. 
Even  that  was  bound  to  lead  somewhere.  Surely  there  was 
no  need  to  worry! 

But  very  soon  it  ceased  to  be  a  calm  sea.  It  grew,  troubled. 
It  began  to  toss.  He  felt  himself  flung  from  billow  to 
billow,  and  the  sound  of  a  great  storm  rose  in  his  ears. 

He  opened  his  eyes  suddenly  wide  to  a  darkness  that 
could  be  felt,  and  it  was  as  though  a  flame  of  agony  went 
through  him,  a  raging  thirst  that  burned  him  fiendishly. 

Ah!  He  knew  the  meaning  of  that!  It  was  horribly 
familiar  to  him.  He  was  back  in  hell — back  in  the  torture- 
chamber  where  he  had  so  often  agonized,  closed  in  behind 
those  bars  of  iron  which  he  had  fought  so  often  and  so 
fruitlessly  to  force  asunder. 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  and  one  of  them  came  into 
contact  with  the  icy  cold  of  a  dead  man's  face.  It  was 
the  man  who  had  shot  him,  and  who  in  his  turn  had  been 
shot.  He  shuddered  at  the  touch,  shrank  into  himself. 


The  Release  of  the  Prisoner          521 

And  again  the  fiery  anguish  caught  him,  set  him  writhing, 
shrivelled  him  as  parchment  is  shrivelled  in  the  flame.  He 
went  through  it,  racked  with  torment,  conscious  of  nought 
else  in  all  the  world,  so  pierced  and  possessed  by  pain 
that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  suffering  that  those  dead  men 
had  missed  were  concentrated  within  him.  He  felt  as  if 
it  must  shatter  him,  soul  and  body,  dissolve  him  with  its 
sheer  intensity.  And  yet  somehow  his  straining  flesh 
endured.  He  came  through  his  inferno,  sweating,  gasping, 
with  broken  prayers  and  the  wrung,  bitter  crying  of  smitten 
strength ! 

Again  the  black  sea  took  him,  bearing  him  to  and  fro, 
deadening  his  pain  but  giving  him  no  rest.  He  tossed  on 
the  troubled  waters  for  interminable  ages.  He  watched 
a  full  moon  rise  blood-red  and  awful  and  turn  gradually 
to  a  whiteness  of  still  more  appalling  purity.  For  a  long, 
long  time  he  watched  it,  trying  to  recall  something  which 
eluded  him,  chasing  a  will-o'-the-wisp  memory  round  and 
round  the  fevered  labyrinths  of  his  brain. 

Then  at  last  very  suddenly  it  turned  and  confronted  him. 
There  in  the  old-world  garden  that  was  every  moment 
growing  more  distinct  and  definite,  he  looked  once  more 
upon  his  wife's  face  in  the  moonlight,  saw  her  eyes  of 
shrinking  horror  raised  to  his,  heard  her  low-spoken  words: 
"I  shall  never  forgive  you. " 

The  vision  passed,  blotted  out  by  returning  pain.  He 
buried  his  head  beneath  his  arms  and  groaned.  .  .  . 

Again — hours  after,  it  seemed, — the  great  cloud  of  his 
agony  lifted.  He  came  to  himself,  feeling  deadly  sick 
but  no  longer  gripped  by  that  fiendish  torture.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  elbows  and  faced  the  blinding  moonlight. 
It  seemed  to  pierce  him,  but  he  forced  himself  to  meet  it. 
He  looked  forth  over  the  silent  garden. 

Strange  silhouettes  of  shrubs  weirdly  fashioned  filled  the 
place.  At  a  little  distance  he  caught  the  gleam  of  white 


522  The  Bars  of  Iron 

marble,  and  there  came  to  him  the  tinkle  of  a  fountain.  He 
became  aware  again  of  raging  thirst — thirst  that  tore  at 
the  very  root  of  his  being.  He  gathered  himself  together 
for  the  greatest  effort  of  his  life.  The  sound  of  the  water 
mocked  him,  maddened  him.  He  would  drink — he  would 
drink — before  he  died! 

The  man  at  his  side  lay  with  face  upturned  starkly  to  the 
moonlight.  It  gleamed  upon  eyes  that  were  glazed  and 
sightless.  The  ground  all  around  them  was  dark  with 
blood. 

Slowly  Piers  raised  himself,  feeling  his  heart  pump  \vith 
the  effort,  feeling  the  stiffened  wound  above  it  tear  and  gape 
asunder.  He  tried  to  hold  his  breath  while  he  moved,  but 
he  could  not.  It  came  in  sharp,  painful  gasps,  sawing  its 
way  through  his  tortured  flesh.  But  in  spite  of  it  he  man 
aged  to  lift  himself  to  his  hands  and  knees;  and  then  for  a 
long,  long  time  he  dared  attempt  no  more.  For  he  could 
feel  the  blood  flowing  steadily  from  his  wound,  and  a 
deadly  faintness  was  upon  him  against  which  he  needed  all 
his  strength  to  fight. 

He  thought  it  must  have  overwhelmed  him  for  a  time  at 
least ;  yet  when  it  began  to  lessen  he  had  not  sunk  down 
again.  He  was  still  propped  upon  hands  and  knees — the 
only  living  creature  in  that  place  of  dead  men. 

He  could  see  them  which  ever  way  he  looked  over  the 
trampled  sward — figures  huddled  or  outstretched  in  the 
moonlight,  all  motionless,  ashen-faced. 

He  saw  none  wounded  like  himself.  Perhaps  the  wounded 
had  been  already  collected,  perhaps  they  had  crawled  to 
shelter.  Or  perhaps  he  was  the  only  one  against  whom  the 
Door  had  been  closed.  He  had  been  left  for  dead.  He  had 
nothing  to  live  for.  Yet  it  seemed  that  he  could  not 
die. 

He.  looked  at  the  man  at  his  side  lying  wrapt  in  the  aloof 
ness  of  Death.  Poor  devil!  How  horrible  he  looked,  and 


The  Release  of  the  Prisoner         523 

how  indifferent !  A  sense  of  shuddering  disgust  came  upon 
Piers.  He  wondered  if  he  would  die  as  hideously. 

Again  the  fountain  mocked  him  softly  from  afar.  Again 
the  fiery  torment  of  his  thirst  awoke.  He  contemplated 
attempting  to  walk,  but  instinct  warned  him  against  the 
risk  of  a  headlong  fall.  He  began  with  infinite  difficulty  to 
crawl  upon  hands  and  knees. 

His  progress  was  desperately  slow,  the  suffering  it  en 
tailed  was  sometimes  unendurable.  And  always  he  knew 
that  the  blood  was  draining  from  him  with  every  foot  of 
ground  he  covered.  But  ever  that  maddening  fountain 
lured  him  on ... 

The  night  had  stretched  into  untold  ages.  He  wondered 
if  in  his  frequent  spells  of  unconsciousness  he  had  somehow 
missed  many  days.  He  had  seen  the  moon  swing  half  across 
the  sky.  He  had  watched  with  delirious  amusement  the 
dead  men  rise  to  bury  each  other.  And  he  had  spent  hours 
in  wondering  what  would  happen  to  the  last  of  them.  His 
head  felt  oddly  light,  as  if  it  were  full  of  air,  a  bubble  of 
prismatic  colours  that  might  burst  into  nothingness  at  any 
moment.  But  his  body  felt  as  if  it  were  fettered  with  a 
thousand  chains.  He  could  hear  them  clanking  as  he  moved. 

But  still  that  fountain  with  its  marble  basin  seemed  the 
end  and  aim  of  his  existence.  Often  he  forgot  to  be  thirsty 
now,  but  he  never  forgot  that  he  must  reach  the  fountain 
before  he  died. 

Sometimes  his  thirst  would  come  back  in  burning  spasms 
to  urge  him  on,  and  he  always  knew  that  there  was  a  great 
reason  for  perseverance,  always  felt  that  if  he  slackened  he 
would  pay  a  terrible  penalty. 

The  fountain  was  very  far  away.  He  crawled  along 
with  ever-increasing  difficulty,  marking  the  progress  of  his 
own  shadow  in  the  strong  moonlight.  There  was  something 
pitiless  about  the  moon.  It  revealed  so  much  that  might 
have  been  mercifullv  veiled. 


524  The  Bars  of  Iron 

From  the  far  distance  there  came  the  long  roll  of  cannon, 
shattering  the  peace  of  the  night,  but  it  was  a  long  way  off. 
In  the  chateau-garden  there  was  no  sound  but  the  tinkle 
of  the  fountain  and  the  laboured,  spasmodic  breathing  of  a 
man  wounded  wellnigh  unto  death. 

Only  a  few  yards  separated  him  now  from  the  running 
water.  It  sounded  like  a  fairy  laughter,  and  all  the  grue 
some  horrors  of  the  place  faded  into  unreality.  Surely  it 
was  fed  by  the  stream  at  home  that  flowed  through  the 
preserves — the  stream  where  the  primroses  grew! 

Only  a  few  more  yards!  But  how  damnably  difficult  it 
was  to  cover  them!  He  could  hardly  drag  his  weighted 
limbs  along.  It  was  the  old  game.  He  knew  it  well.  But 
how  devilish  to  fetter  him  so !  It  had  been  the  ruin  of  his 
life.  He  set  his  teeth,  and  forced  himself  on.  He  would 
win  through  in  spite  of  all. 

The  moonlight  poured  dazzlingly  upon  the  white  marble 
basin,  and  on  the  figure  of  a  nymph  who  bent  above  it, 
delicately  poised  like  a  butterfly  about  to  take  wing.  He 
wondered  if  she  would  flee  at  his  approach,  but  she  did  not. 
She  stood  there  waiting  for  him,  a  thing  of  infinite  daintiness, 
the  one  object  untouched  in  that  ravaged  garden.  Perhaps 
after  all  it  was  she  and  not  the  fountain  that  drew  him  so 
irresistibly.  He  had  a  great  longing  to  hear  her  speak,  but 
he  was  afraid  to  address  her  lest  he  should  scare  her  away. 
She  was  so  slight,  so  spiritual,  so  exquisite  in  her  fairy 
grace.  She  made  him  think  of  Jeanie — little  Jeanie  who 
had  prayed  for  his  happiness  and  had  not  lived  to  see  her 
prayer  fulfilled. 

He  drew  near  with  a  certain  stealthiness,  fearing  to  startle 
her.  He  would  have  risen  to  his  feet,  but  his  strength  was 
ebbing  fast.  He  knew  he  could  not. 

And  then — just  ere  he  reached  the  marble  basin,  the  goal 
of  that  long,  bitter  journey — he  saw  her  turn  a  little  towards 
him;  he  heard  her  speak. 


The  Release  of  the  Prisoner          525 

"Dear  Sir  Galahad!" 

"Jeanie!"  he  gasped. 

She  seemed  to  sway  above  the  gleaming  water.  Even 
then — even  then — he  was  not  sure  of  her — till  he  saw  her 
face  of  childish  purity  and  the  happy  smile  of  greeting  in  her 
eyes! 

"How  very  tired  you  must  be ! "  she  said. 

"I  am,  Jeanie!  I  am!"  he  groaned  in  answer.  "These 
chains — these  iron  bars — I  shall  never  get  free!" 

He  saw  her  white  arms  reach  out  to  him.  He  thought  her 
fingers  touched  his  brow.  And  he  knew  quite  suddenly  that 
the  journey  was  over,  and  he  could  lie  down  and  rest. 

Her  voice  came  to  him  very  softly,  with  a  hushing  tender 
ness  through  the  miniature  rush  and  gurgle  of  the  water. 
As  usual  she  sought  to  comfort  him,  but  he  heard  a  thrill 
of  triumph  as  well  as  sympathy  in  her  words. 

"He  hath  broken  the  gates  of  brass,"  she  said.  "And 
smitten  the  bars  of  iron  in  sunder." 

His  fingers  closed  upon  the  edge  of  the  pool.  He  felti 
the  water  splash  his  face  as  he  sank  down ;  and  though  he  was 
too  spent  to  drink  he  thanked  God  for  bringing  him  thither. 

Later  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  Divine  Presence  came 
through  the  garden,  that  Someone  stooped  and  touched  him, 
and  lo,  his  chains  were  broken  and  his  burden  gone!  And 
he  roused  himself  to  ask  for  pardon ;  which  was  granted  to 
him  ere  that  Presence  passed  away. 


He  never  knew  exactly  what  happened  after  that  night  in 
the  garden  of  the  ruined  chateau.  There  were  a  great  many 
happenings,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to  concern  him  very 
vitally. 

He  wandered  through  great  spaces  of  oblivion,  inter 
sected  with  terrible  streaks  of  excruciating  pain.  During 
the  intervals  of  this  fearful  suffering  he  was  acutely  con- 


526  The  Bars  of  Iron 

scious,  but  he  invariably  forgot  everything  again  when  the 
merciful  unconsciousness  came  back.  He  knew  in  a  vague 
way  that  he  lay  in  a  hospital-tent  with  other  dying  men, 
knew  when  they  moved  him  at  last  because  he  could  not 
die,  suffered  agonies  unutterable  upon  an  endless  road  that 
never  seemed  to  lead  to  anywhere,  and  finally  awoke  to 
find  that  the  journey  had  been  over  for  several  days. 

He  tried  very  hard  not  to  wake.  Waking  invariably 
meant  anguish.  He  longed  unspeakably  for  Death,  but 
Death  was  denied  him.  And  when  someone  came  and 
stooped  over  him  and  took  his  nerveless  hand,  he  whispered 
with  closed  eyes  an  earnest  request  not  to  be  called  back. 

"It's  such — a  ghastly  business — "  he  muttered  piteously 
—"this  waking." 

"Won't  you  speak  to  a  friend,  Piers?"  a  voice  said. 

He  opened  his  eyes  then.  He  had  not  heard  his  own  name 
for  months.  He  looked  up  into  eyes  that  gleamed  hawk 
like  through  glasses,  and  a  throb  of  recognition  went  through 
his  heart. 

"You!"  he  whispered,  striving  desperately  to  master  the 
sickening  pain  that  that  throb  had  started. 

"All  right.  Don't  speak  for  a  bit!"  said  Tudor  quietly. 
"  I  think  I  can  help  you. " 

He  did  help,  working  over  him  steadily,  with  the  utmost 
gentleness,  till  the  worst  of  the  paroxysm  was  past. 

Piers  was  pathetically  grateful.  His  high  spirit  had  sunk 
very  low  in  those  days.  No  one  that  he  could  remember  had 
ever  done  anything  to  ease  his  pain  before. 

"  It's  been — so  infernal,  "  he  whispered  presently.  "  You 
know — I  was  shot — through  the  heart." 

Tudor's  face  was  very  grave.  "Yes,  you're  pretty  bad, " 
he  said.  "But  you've  pulled  through  so  far.  It's  in  your 
favour,  that.  And  look  here,  you  must  lie  flat  on  your 
back  always.  Do  you  understand?  It's  about  your  only 
chance. " 


The  Release  of  the  Prisoner         527 

" Of  living ? "  whispered  Piers.  "But  I  don't  want  to  live. 
I  want  to  die. " 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  said  Tudor. 

" I'm  not  a  fool.  I  hate  life!"  A  tremor  of  passion  ran 
through  the  words. 

Tudor  laid  a  hand  upon  him.  "Piers,  if  ever  any  man 
had  anything  to  live  for,  you  are  that  man, "  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Piers'  eyes,  dark  as  the  night 
through  which  he  had  come,  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  mean  just  that.  If  you  can't  live  for  your  own  sake, 
live  for  hers !  She  wants  you.  It'll  break  her  heart  if  you 
go  out  now." 

"Great  Scott,  man!  You're  not  in  earnest!"  whispered 
Piers. 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  I  know  exactly  what  I  am  saying.  I 
don't  talk  at  random.  She  loved  you.  She  wants  you. 
You've  lived  for  yourself  all  your  life.  Now — you've  got  to 
live  for  her. " 

Tudor's  voice  was  low  and  vehement.  A  faint  sparkle 
came  into  Piers'  eyes  as  he  heard  it. 

"By  George!"  he  said  softly.  "You're  rather  a  brick, 
what?  But  haven't  you  thought — what  might  happen — if 
— if  I  went  out  after  all  ?  You  used  to  be  rather  great — at 
getting  me  out  of  the  way." 

"I  didn't  realize  how  all-important  you  were,"  rejoined 
Tudor,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "You  needn't  go  any  further  in 
that  direction.  It  leads  to  a  blank  wall.  You've  got  to  live 
whether  you  like  it  or  not.  I'm  going  to  do  all  I  can  to  make 
you  live,  and  you'll  be  a  hound  if  you  don't  back  me  up. " 

His  eyes  looked  down  upon  Piers,  dominant  and  piercingly 
intent.  And — perhaps  it  was  mere  physical  weakness,  or 
possibly  the  voluntary  yielding  of  a  strong  will  that  was  in 
its  own  way  as  great  as  the  strength  to  which  it  yielded — 
Piers  surrendered  with  a  meekness  such  as  Tudor  had  never 
before  witnessed  in  him. 


528  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"All  right,"  he  said.     "I'll  do— my  best." 
And  so  oddly  they  entered  into  a  partnership  that  had 
for  its  sole  end  and  aim  the  happiness  of  the  woman  they 
loved;  and  in  that  partnership  their  rivalry  was  for  ever 
extinguished. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOLY  GROUND 

"HPHEY  say  he  will  never  fight  again,"  said  Crowther 

1  gravely.  "He  may  live.  They  think  he  will  live. 
But  he  will  never  be  strong. " 

"If  only  I  might  see  him! "  Avery  said. 

"Yes,  I  know.  That  is  the  hardest  part.  But  be  pa 
tient  a  little  longer!  So  much  depends  on  it.  I  was  told 
only  this  morning  that  any  agitation  might  be  fatal.  No 
one  seems  to  understand  how  it  is  that  he  has  managed  to 
live  at  all.  He  is  just  hanging  on,  poor  lad, — just  hanging 
on." 

"I  want  to  help  him, "  Avery  said. 

"  I  know  you  do.  And  so  you  can — if  you  will.  But  not 
by  going  to  him.  That  would  do  more  harm  than  good. " 

"How  else  can  I  do  anything?"  she  said.  "Surely — • 
surely  he  wants  to  see  me ! " 

She  was  standing  in  Crowther's  room,  facing  him  with 
that  in  her  eyes  that  moved  him  to  a  great  compassion. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "My  dear,  of  course 
he  wants  to  see  you ;  but  there  will  be  no  keeping  him  quiet 
when  he  does.  He  isn't  equal  to  it.  He  is  putting  up  the 
biggest  fight  of  his  life,  and  he  wants  all  his  strength  for  it. 
But  you  can  do  your  part  now  if  you  will.  You  can  go  down 
to  Rodding  Abbey  and  make  ready  to  receive  him  there. 
And  you  can  send  Victor  to  help  me  with  him  as  soon  as  he 
is  able  to  leave  the  hospital.  He  and  I  will  bring  him  down 

34  529 


53°  The  Bars  of  Iron 

to  you.  And  if  you  will  be  there  just  in  the  ordinary  way, 
I  think  there  will  be  less  risk  of  excitement.  Will  you  do 
this,  Avery?  Is  it  asking  too  much  of  you?" 

His  grey  eyes  looked  straight  down  into  hers  with  the 
wide  friendliness  that  was  as  the  open  gateway  to  his  soul, 
and  some  of  the  bitter  strain  of  the  past  few  weeks  passed 
from  her  own  as  she  looked  back. 

"Nothing  would  be  too  much,"  she  said.  "I  would  do 
anything — anything.  But  if  he  should  want  me — and  I 
were  not  at  hand?  If — if — he  should — die — "  Her  voice 
sank. 

Crowther's  hand  pressed  upon  her.  "He  is  not  going  to 
die,"  he  said  stoutly.  "He  doesn't  mean  to  die.  But  he 
will  probably  have  to  go  slow  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  That  is 
where  you  will  be  able  to  help  him.  His  only  chance  lies 
in  patience.  You  must  teach  him  to  be  patient. " 

Her  lips  quivered  in  a  smile.  " Piers !"  she  said.  "Can 
you  picture  it?" 

"Yes,  I  can.  Because  I  know  that  only  patience  can 
have  brought  him  to  where  he  is  at  present.  They  say  it  is 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle,  and  I  believe  it.  God  often 
works  His  miracles  that  way.  And  I  always  knew  that 
Piers  was  great. " 

Crowther's  slow  smile  appeared,  transforming  his  whole 
face.  He  held  Avery's  hand  for  a  little,  and  let  it  go. 

"So  you  will  do  this,  will  you?"  he  said.  "I  think  the 
boy  would  be  just  about  pleased  to  find  you  there.  And 
you  can  depend  on  me  to  bring  him  down  to  you  as  soon  as 
he  is  able  to  bear  it." 

"You  are  very  good,"  Avery  said.     "Yes,  I  will  go." 

But,  as  Crowther  knew,  in  going  she  accepted  the  hardest 
part ;  and  the  weeks  that  she  then  spent  at  Rodding  Abbey 
waiting,  waiting  with  a  sick  anxiety,  left  upon  her  a  mark 
which  no  time  could  ever  erase. 

When  Crowther's  message  came  to  her  at  last,  she  was 


Holy  Ground  531 

almost  too  crushed  to  believe.  Everything  was  in  readiness, 
had  been  in  readiness  for  weeks.  She  had  prepared  in 
fevered  haste,  telling  herself  that  any  day  might  bring  him. 
But  day  had  followed  day,  and  the  news  had  always  been 
depressing,  first  of  weakness,  fits  of  pain,  terrible  collapses, 
and  again  difficult  recoveries.  Not  once  had  she  been  told 
that  any  ground  had  been  gained. 

And  so  when  one  day  a  telegram  reached  her  earlier  than 
usual,  she  hardly  dared  to  open  it,  so  little  did  she  anticipate 
that  the  news  could  be  good. 

And  even  when  the  words  stared  her  in  the  face:  "Bring 
ing  Piers  this  afternoon,  Crowther, "  she  could  not  for 
awhile  believe  them,  and  sought  instinctively  to  read  into 
them  some  sinister  meaning. 

How  she  got  through  that  day,  she  never  afterwards  knew. 
The  hours  dragged  leaden-footed.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done.  She  would  not  leave  the  house  lest  by  some  impos 
sible  chance  he  might  arrive  before  the v  afternoon,  but  she 
felt  that  to  stay  within  its  walls  was  unendurable.  So  for 
the  most  part  she  paced  the  terrace,  breathing  the  dank, 
autumnal  air,  picturing  every  phase  of  his  journey,  but 
never  daring  to  picture  his  arrival,  praying  piteous,  dis 
jointed  prayers  that  only  her  own  soul  seemed  to  hear. 

The  afternoon  began  to  wane,  and  dusk  came  down.  A 
small  drifting  rain  set  in  with  the  darkness,  but  she  was  not 
even  aware  of  it  till  David,  very  deferential  and  subdued, 
came  to  her  and  suggested  that  if  she  would  wait  in  the  hall 
Sir  Piers  would  see  her  at  once,  as  he  had  taken  the  liberty 
to  turn  on  all  the  lights. 

She  knew  that  the  old  man  made  the  suggestion  out  of 
the  goodness  of  his  heart,  and  she  fell  in  with  it,  realizing  the 
wisdom  of  going  within.  But  when  she  found  herself  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  great  hall,  alone  with  those  shining  suits  of 
armour  that  mounted  guard  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace,  the 
awful  suspense  came  upon  her  with  a  force  that  nothing 


532  The  Bars  of  Iron 

could  alleviate.  She  turned  with  sick  loathing  from  the 
tea-tray  that  David  had  placed  for  her  so  comfortingly  close 
to  the  fire.  Every  moment  that  passed  was  an  added 
torture.  It  was  dark,  it  was  late.  The  conviction  was 
growing  in  her  heart  that  when  they  came  at  last,  they 
would  bring  with  them  only  her  husband's  dead  body. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  open  door.  Where  was  his 
spirit  now,  she  wondered?  Had  he  leapt  ahead  of  that 
empty,  travelling  shell?  Was  he  already  close — close — his 
arm  entwined  in  hers  ?  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  Piers,  I  can't  go  on  alone, "  she  sobbed.  "  If  you  are 
dead — I  must  die  too!" 

And  then,  as  though  in  obedience  to  a  voice  that  had 
spoken  within  her,  she  raised  her  head  again  and  gazed  forth. 
The  rain  had  drifted  away.  Through  scudding  clouds  of 
darkness  there  shone,  serene  and  splendid,  a  single  star. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great  throb,  and  was  still. 

"The  Star  of  Hope!"  she  murmured  wonderingly. 
"The  Star  of  Hope!" 

And  in  that  moment  inexplicably  yet  convincingly  she 
knew  that  her  prayers  that  had  seemed  so  fruitless  had  been 
heard,  and  that  an  answer  was  very  near  at  hand.  .  .  . 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  horn  from  the  direction  of  the 
lodge.  They  were  coming. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  down  the  dark  avenue. 
But  she  was  no  longer  agitated  or  distressed  by  fear.  She 
knew  not  what  might  be  in  store  for  her,  but  somehow, 
mystically,  she  had  been  endued  with  strength  to  meet  it 
unafraid. 

She  heard  the  soft  buzz  of  a  high-powered  car,  and  pre 
sently  two  lights  appeared  at  the  further  end.  They  came 
towards  her  swiftly,  almost  silently.  It  was  like  the  swoop 
of  an  immense  bird.  And  then  in  the  strong  glare  shed 
forth  by  the  hall-lamps  she  saw  the  huge  body  of  an  ambu 
lance-car,  and  a  Red  Cross  flared  symbolic  in  the  light. 


Holy  Ground  533 

The  car  came  to  a  stand  immediately  before  her,  and  for  a 
few  moments  nothing  happened.  And  still  she  was  not 
afraid.  Still  she  was  as  it  were  guided  and  sustained 
and  lifted  above  all  turmoil.  She  seemed  to  stand  on  a 
mountain-top,  above  the  seething  misery  that  had  for  so 
long  possessed  her.  She  was  braced  to  look  upon  even 
Death  unshaken,  undismayed. 

Steadily  she  moved.  She  went  down  to  the  car.  Old 
David  was  behind  her.  He  came  forward  and  opened  the 
door  with  fumbling,  quivering  hands.  She  had  time  to 
notice  his  agitation  and  to  be  sorry  for  him. 

Then  a  voice  came  to  her  from  within,  and  a  great 
throb  went  through  her  of  thankfulness,  of  relief,  of  joy 
unspeakable. 

"Victor,  you  old  ass,  what  are  you  blubbing  for?  Anyone 
would  think —  A  sudden  pause,  then  in  a  low,  eager 
tone,  "Hullo, — A  very?" 

The  incredulous  interrogation  of  the  words  cut  her  to  the 
heart.  She  went  up  the  step  and  into  the  car  as  if  drawn 
by  an  irresistible  magnetism,  seeing  neither  Crowther  nor 
Victor,  aware  only  of  a  prone,  gaunt  figure  on  a  stretcher, 
white-haired,  skeleton-featured,  that  reached  a  trembling 
hand  to  her  and  said  again,  "Hullo!" 

For  one  wild  second  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  the  pres 
ence  of  old  Sir  Beverley,  so  striking  was  the  likeness  that 
the  drawn,  upturned  face  bore  to  him.  Then  Piers'  eyes, 
black  as  the  night,  smiled  up  at  her,  half -imperious,  half- 
pleading,  and  the  illusion  was  gone. 

She  stooped  over  him,  that  trembling  hand  fast  clasped  in 
hers;  but  she  could  not  speak.  No  words  would  come. 

"Been  waiting,  what?"  he  said.     "I  hope  not  for  long?" 

But  still  she  could  not  speak.  She  felt  choked.  It  was 
all  so  unnatural,  so  cruelly  hard  to  bear. 

"I  shan't  be  like  this  always,"  he  said.  "Afraid  I  look 
an  awful  guy  just  at  present." 


534  The  Bars  of  Iron 

That  was  all  then,  for  Crowther  came  gently  between 
them;  and  then  he  and  Victor,  with  infinite  care,  lifted  the 
stretcher  and  bore  the  master  of  the  house  into  his  own 
home. 

Half  an  hour  later  Avery  turned  from  waving  a  farewell 
to  Crowthcr,  who  had  insisted  upon  going  back  to  town 
with  the  car  that  had  brought  them,  and  softly  shut  out  the 
night. 

She  had  had  the  library  turned  into  a  bedroom  for  Piers, 
and  she  crossed  the  hall  to  the  door  with  an  eagerness  that 
carried  her  no  further.  There,  gripping  the  handle,  she  was 
stayed. 

Within,  she  could  hear  Victor  moving  to  and  fro,  but  she 
listened  in  vain  for  her  husband's  voice,  and  a  great  shyness 
came  upon  her.  She  could  not  ask  permission  to  enter. 

Minutes  passed  while  she  stood  there,  minutes  of  tense 
listening,  during  which  she  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  Then 
very  suddenly  she  heard  a  sound  that  set  every  nerve 
a-quiver — a  groan  that  was  more  of  weariness  than  pain, 
but  such  weariness  as  made  her  own  heart  throb  in 
passionate  sympathy. 

Almost  without  knowing  it,  she  turned  the  handle  of  the 
door,  and  opened  it.  A  moment  more,  and  she  was  in  the 
room. 

He  was  lying  flat  in  the  bed,  his  dark  eyes  staring  up- 
ivards  out  of  deep  hollows  that  had  become  cruelly  distinct. 
There  was  dumb  endurance  in  every  line  of  him.  His 
mouth  was  hard  set,  the  chin  firm  as  granite.  And  even 
then  in  his  utter  helplessness  there  was  about  him  a  great 
ness,  a  mute,  unconscious  majesty,  that  caught  h^r  by  the 
throat. 

She  went  softly  to  the  bedside. 

He  turned  his  head  at  her  coming,  not  quickly,  not  with 
any  eagerness  of  welcome;  but  with  that  in  his  eyes,  a  slow 


Holy  Ground  535 

kindling,  that  seemed  to  surround  her  with  the  glow  of  a 
great  warmth. 

But  when  he  spoke,  it  was  upon  no  intimate  subject. 
"Has  Crowther  gone?"  he  asked. 

His  voice  was  pitched  very  low.  She  saw  that  he  spoke 
with  deliberate  quietness,  as  if  he  were  training  himself 
thereto. 

"Yes, "  she  made  answer.     " He  wouldn't  stay. " 

"He  couldn't, "  said  Piers.  "He  is  going  to  be  ordained 
to-morrow." 

"Oh,  is  he?"  she  said  in  surprise.     "He  never  told  me!" 

"He  wouldn't,"  said  Piers.  "He  never  talks  about 
himself."  He  moved  his  hand  slightly  towards  her. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

She  glanced  round.  Victor  was  advancing  behind  her 
with  a  chair.  Piers'  eyes  followed  hers,  and  an  instant 
later,  turning  back,  she  saw  his  quick  frown.  He  raised 
his  hand  and  snapped  his  fingers  with  the  old  imperious 
gesture, pointing  to  the  door;  and  in  a  moment  Victor,  with  a 
smile  of  peculiar  gratification,  put  down  the  chair,  trotted 
to  it,  opened  it  with  a  flourish,  and  was  gone. 

Avery  was  left  standing  by  the  bed,  slightly  uncertain, 
wanting  to  smile,  but  wanting  much  more  to  cry. 

Piers'  hand  fell  heavily.  For  a  few  seconds  he  lay  per 
fectly  still,  with  quickened  breathing  and  drawn  brows. 
Then  his  fingers  patted  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "Sit  down, 
sweetheart!"  he  said. 

It  was  Piers  the  boy-lover  who  spoke  to  her  with  those 
words,  and,  hearing  them,  something  seemed  to  give  way 
within  her.  It  was  as  if  a  tight  band  round  her  heart  had 
suddenly  been  torn  asunder. 

She  sank  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  hid  her 
face  in  his  pillow.  Tears — tears  such  as  she  had  not  shed 
since  the  beginning  of  their  bitter  estrangement — came 
welling  up  from  her  heart  and  would  not  be  restrained.  She 


536  The  Bars  of  Iron 

sobbed  her  very  soul  out  there  beside  him,  subconsciously 
aware  that  in  that  hour  his  strength  was  greater  than  hers. 

Like  an  overwhelming  torrent  her  distress  came  upon  her, 
caught  her  tempestuously,  swept  her  utterly  from  her  own 
control,  tossed  her  hither  and  thither,  flung  her  at  last 
into  a  place  of  deep,  deep  silence,  where,  still  kneeling  with 
head  bowed  low,  she  became  conscious,  strangely,  intimately 
conscious,  of  the  presence  of  God. 

It  held  her  like  a  spell,  that  consciousness.  She  was  as 
one  who  kneels  before  a  vision.  And  even  while  she  knelt 
there,  lost  in  wonder,  there  came  to  her  the  throbbing  glad 
ness  of  faith  renewed,  the  certainty  that  all  would  be  well. 

Piers'  hand  was  on  her  head,  stroking,  caressing,  soothirg. 
By  no  words  did  he  attempt  to  comfort  her.  It  was  strange 
how  little  either  of  them  felt  the  need  of  words.  They  were 
together  upon  holy  ground,  and  in  closer  communion  each 
with  each  than  they  had  ever  been  before.  Those  tears  of 
Avery's  had  washed  away  the  barrier. 

Once,  some  time  later,  he  whispered  to  her,  "I  never 
asked  you  to  forgive  me,  A  very;  but " 

And  that  was  the  nearest  he  ever  came  to  asking  her 
forgiveness.  For  she  stopped  the  words  with  her  lips  on  his, 
and  he  never  thought  of  uttering  them  again. 


EPILOGUE 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  and  children's  voices  singing  in  the 
night !  Two  figures  by  the  open  window  listening — a 
man  and  a  woman,  hand  in  hand  in  the  dark! 

"  Don't  let  them  see  us  yet ! "  It  was  the  woman's  voice, 
low  but  with  a  deep  thrill  in  it  as  of  full  and  complete  con 
tent.  "  I  knew  they  were  coming.  Gracie  whispered  it  to 
me  this  morning.  But  I  wasn't  to  tell  anyone.  She  was  so 
afraid  their  father  might  forbid  it." 

The  man  answered  with  a  faint,  derisive  laugh  that  yet 
had  in  it  an  echo  of  the  woman's  satisfaction.  He  did  not 
speak,  for  already  through  the  winter  darkness  a  single, 
boyish  voice  had  taken  up  another  verse : 

"He  comes,  the  prisoners  to  release 
In  Satan's  bondage  held; 
The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 
The  iron  fetters  yield." 

The  woman's  fingers  clung  fast  to  his.     "Love  opens  every 
aoor, "  she  whispered. 

His  answering  grip  was  close  and  strong.  But  he  said 
nothing  while  the  last  triumphant  lines  were  repeated. 

"  The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 
The  iron  fetters  yield." 

The  next  verse  was  sung  by  two  voices  in  harmony,  very  soft 
and  hushed. 

537 


538  The  Bars  of  Iron 

"He  comes  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 
And  with  the  treasures  of  His  grace 
To  bless  the  humble  poor." 

Then  came  a  pause,  while  through  the  quiet  night  there 
floated  the  sound  of  distant  bells. 

"Look!"  said  Piers  suddenly. 

And  Avery,  kneeling  beside  him,  raised  her  eyes. 

There,  high  above  the  trees,  alone  and  splendid,  there 
shone  a  great,  quivering  star. 

His  arm  slid  round  her  neck.  "The  Star  of  Hope, 
Avery, "  he  whispered.  "Yours — and  mine. " 

She  clung  to  him  silently,  with  a  closeness  that  was 
passionate. 

And  so  the  last  verse,  very  clear  and  strong,  came  tc 
them  out  of  the  night. 

"Our  glad  hosannas,  Prince  of  Peace, 
Thy  welcome  shall  proclaim, 
And  Heaven's  eternal  arches  ring 
With  Thy  beloved  Name. 
And  Heaven's  eternal  arches  ring 
With  Thy  beloved  Name." 

Avery  leaned  her  head  against  her  husband's  shoulder.  "'  I 
hear  an  angel  singing,"  she  said. 

Ten  minutes  later,  Gracie  stood  in  the  great  hall  with  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire  spreading  all  about  her,  her  bright  eyes 
surveying  the  master  of  the  house  who  lay  back  in  a  low 
easy-chair  with  his  wife  kneeling  beside  him  and  Cassar  the 
Dalmatian  curled  up  with  much  complacence  at  his  feet. 

"How  very  comfy  you  look!"  she  remarked. 

And,  "We  are  comfy,"  said  Piers,  with  a  smile. 


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